War of the Sightless Eye
by Sub-Zero879
Summary: Far more old gods exist than those chained beneath the surface of Azeroth. The deaths of C'Thun and Yogg-Saron can be ignored no longer; the time of reckoning has come. It is said that the War of the Sightless Eye, led by the four human commanders Thomas the Swiftblade, Drekthac the Immortal, Lord Malthon Eyenhart, and Sin de Rath the Mad, was not much of a war at all. An epic.
1. Prologue, Dawn

**Disclaimer:** As always, the Warcraft universe and all media involved belong to Activision Blizzard. This story is a fan's fictional idea using their universe to tell a story, and it is shared as a non-profitable source of entertainment. Never pay to read this story, ect. Ect.

**Legend:** (Though I try my hardest to keep the formatting clear, here is a formatting key to glance at)

-All narration, speech.

_-Thoughts/reflections. A written letter or missive._

_-"Speech in non-Common language." "Speech from a past memory, vision, or flashback."_

**Summary:**

There is the Ranger, Thomas the Swiftblade, who leads the shattered remnants of the Sunfury blood elves from the ruins of Netherstorm.

The Underdog, Baelin Drekthac, also called the Small Dragon, who has earned his place to live amongst the savage Jotunheim vrykul and dreams of winning access to Ymirheim through Valhalas.

The Beacon, Sir Malthon Eyenhart, the paladin who seeks redemption for his brothers and sisters in the Light left in the ruins of the Scarlet Onslaught and elsewhere.

Finally, there is the Fallen, Sin de Rath the Mad, a lone warlock who has accepted the task of leading the disparate qiraji Battleguards from Ahn'qiraj to safety.

Standing against them is Ghat'Nothos, The Always Watching, a Lovecraftian-themed old god who has come to Azeroth at the peak of his power with the death of his brothers C'Thun and Yogg'Saron and continued entombment of his three other siblings. In a single stroke, the entirety of Azeroth's factions and heroes are thrown into disarray and turmoil, leaving the planet's fate in the hands of four men and those they command.

**Final clarification:**

The setting is roughly one year post-Fall of the Lich King.

Similar to Wheel of Time, Hyperion, and even the Avengers movie, this story follows the perspectives of four protagonists of equal importance, each independent of the rest. Following the prologue, each chapter will be devoted to following individual characters, rather than jumping about. Because of this, it is inherently difficult to keep the story in chronological story. Thus, know that it won't be told chronologically. Where everyone is at the end of this chapter is where they are when Ghat'nothos appears; following that, it is on me to ensure that characters A and B meet two months later, not two weeks for A and two months for B.

Also similar to Wheel of Time, this story will be Very. Very. Long. Chapters will be book length (5-15k words each), and the total (tentative) length two books at 1,000 pages each. 200 pages of the first is already written.

*A strong background knowledge of all aspects of the game and lore of World of Warcraft (Classic to Wrath) is recommended for the reading of this fic, though it shouldn't be necessary.

* * *

Prologue

_Dawn_

* * *

"_It is a small matter to control the mind of the weak... for I bear allegiance to powers untouched by time, unmoved by fate. No force on this world or beyond harbors the strength to bend our knee... not even the mighty Legion! We span the universe, as countless as the stars!" _-Harbinger Skyriss

"_In the time before time, when the world was still in its infancy, a battle between a Titan and a being of unimaginable evil and power raged on this very soil. The prophecy is unclear about whether or not the Titan was vanquished in this battle but it illustrates that a Titan fell." _-Geologist Larksbane

"_After thousands of years of slumber, the old god, C'thun, has awakened and is quickly regenerating his power. Once he has reached full potential nothing will be able to stop him." _-Unknown, on the urgency to invade Ahn'Qiraj before C'Thun finished his recovery.

X Ranger X

In an effortless motion, Thomas pried his dagger free from the remains of the massive mana beast, then settled into a low crouch atop the corpse with his hands on his knees. The Sunfury around him were speechless now, unable to even motivate themselves to attack him. Grimy, exhausted, half-starved elves that looked too frail for their armor and uniforms.

The pink and purple lightning of Netherstorm forked across sky in otherworldly flashes, but when the thunder reached them, it was impossible to tell if it quaked the hovering land mass or if that was just its sundering drift. The anxiety that the very ground beneath your feet might split and crumble away at any second was a constant presence in anyone's gut, with the unknown of falling into the Twisting Nether just behind.

From his position over them, not even out of breath from the quick fight, Thomas announced dispassionately, "With Kael'thas dead and the remaining Sunfury clearly defeated, I'll give you two options. The first is, you stay here – waiting until an Alliance or Horde party swings by and finishes you off or another one of these big nether-monsters spawns gets you in a fit of ironic justice, given that you're the cause of this blighted rift."

He slapped the scaled, mana-dripping hide of the grossly deformed and bloated Phase Hunter for emphasis. They needed no further reminder of the many blood elf lives it had claimed in its rampage before Thomas' sudden appearance. He continued, "The second, you follow me. I'll take you safely from this mad, accursed land and back to Azeroth, where you might find normal lives once again. If you choose to follow me, I'll hear no questions from you, no complaints, and you'll follow my word to the letter. Only then can I assure your safe return."

The human rogue stood finally, balanced well on the corpse, and jumped down before them. Filling his armor with muscle, as a healthy man ought, he seemed unnaturally large beside their thin forms. Standing among them now, he looked into their haunted, fel green eyes with purpose, eventually shrugging.

"I care naught for your choice. If your bloodgem addiction is more precious than your lives or you are confident in your own ability to get out safely, do what you will. I will hit all the manaforges and Sunfury bases with this offer and then be off. The choice is yours."

He pushed forward, and the elves parted without resistance to let him go. Glances were made as they wondered at his offer, but silence was the only response. Until one woman piped up shrilly, the desperation heavy in her accented voice, "Why would you help us? How can we know to trust you?"

Thomas turned his head towards her, stopping his walk. His expression was hard. "I told you, I won't be answering questions. Follow or stay."

At the end of their crowd of warriors, Thomas finally made it clear, and he set upon the dirty road that led to the only bridge off this particular landmass. Behind him, he could hear the shuffling of the people moving, the sudden clamor of them murmuring and arguing. Some sprinted off to their tents, salvaging what they were to take and what to leave, and others disputed openly.

Thomas heard it all, piecing it together by sound without looking back. Treading the otherworldly purple dirt and rocks, he was suddenly reminded of the forests of his youth, his shoddy ranger training, and how much he loathed Netherstorm and what had been done to make it. He stopped finally at the bridge, noticing again that it was quiet now without the massive passing of the siphoned mana beneath. The storming sky filled any silence though.

A group of six travel-ready elves descended first, with looks of determination on their angular faces. At their lead was a woman, timelessly youthful as all elves were, and she stared right into his eyes as they approached. Thomas nodded once to her, acknowledging the decision, and she nodded back.

Behind those six, he could see more were already following in a sluggish, patchy horde of crimsons and blues. Seeing it, he inhaled slowly and breathed out, keeping his mind clear and level. They were actually following him. Some would stay, but this many decided to trust their very lives in his hands, expecting him to make good on his promise of safety.

_Thomas, Thomas..._ he chided to himself, keeping doubt from his face. He took another reassuring breath. _You know what you're getting into. What it entitles. Save these people._

XxX

Hundreds flocked to Thomas' call. After the long wars and suddenly found leaderless, the blood elves were disarrayed. They feared death, longed for home, shivered with thoughts of being away from the _broken_ Netherstorm, but most of all, they wanted hope. Hope that after the long trials, after the wars and alliances, marching across whole worlds, that at the very end there was rest – that they would be somewhere they called home, not lined up at chopping blocks.

Thomas promised that, and so they came.

Only this disparate few hundred, five or six, remained of the legions that had followed Kael'thas. They all stood behind Thomas with wide eyes and proudly lifted chins, awaiting his word. All of them were soldiers or once soldiers, all of them had marched through all the hells and high waters, and all of them were prepared to do it again.

At the last bridge, the great goblin one that separated Netherstorm from Blade's Edge mountains, Thomas looked back at the many faces fixed on him. He nodded once to them, his own pack over his shoulder, then gestured them onward with his head. He took the first step, and they followed.

X Underdog X

It was hot in the Underhalls. Too many bodies, too much excitement. It left the air stuffy and filled with the unwashed scent of the burly barbarians. Vrykul, they were called. These giants made of muscles like stones, twice a human's height. Uncouth, savage, cruel...

Violent.

Baelin Drekthac roared like an animal as he smashed his wrist into his opponent's, winning an open spot, and with his right fist, he buried it as deep into the stomach of rocks as he could. The vrykul wheezed and bent at the waist, but his bloodied lips remained curled up as his own fist retaliated, forcing Drekthac to block and get knocked back.

"Ayy! Whelp!"

"Look at em stand!"

The crowds hollered and cheered and jeered as they always did. They were a rowdy bunch (that made them Drekthac's bunch), and composed solely of vrykuls. He was the only human they tolerated to stand among them. That wasn't a funny exception though; he had started in the cages, challenging the biggest and meanest, and only through the Underhalls tournaments did the vrykul began to accept him. They honored strength, respected it, and once it was proved that Drekthac's victories weren't just some strange, reoccurring flukes, they eventually honored him – in their own way.

Wiping blood and sweat from his mouth, Drekthac stepped to the side as his opponent did. They both were bruised and bled, and still the call hadn't come for weapons to be dropped inside the ring. Both bellowed as they stomped back in to continue their brawl.

The vrykul craved blood and shows of strength. In the Underhalls, the loser never lived to see the sun rise. Drekthac was a champion there, the one the bets were placed upon, and he had won himself many things through the tournaments. His home, even, had come from some greybeard who couldn't back his taunts.

The roaring crowds were composed of men and women, but it was no high class gladiatorial arena. Men openly fondled their women, usually ripping the loose shirts in the process, while others flashed their monstrous, bouncing tits in hopes of luring the night's champion into their beds. The lowest slave-whores and gutter goods were chained fully nude where observes could have their fun while still watching the ring.

With both hands around the giant's right leg, Drekthac's teeth gritted and he pulled with everything he had. The crowds were already going wild, seeing him do it before. So had his opponent, yet Jaogen could only flail for a second before he was flat on his back, then roll aside with a shout when Drekthac kicked his temple.

Behind them, there was the heavy clatter of metal on stone. The weapons had been dropped. It was time to finish. Jaogen looked up too, eyes furious, knowing one of them would have to die before they could leave the ring. Now, if Drekthac had been a lesser man, he might complain that the hosts only dropped vrykul sized weapons. Clearly, as a human, he was disadvantaged.

Yet, Drekthac thought as he hefted up a two handed vrykul axe in one fist, he had already proven himself their equal. And sometimes even their better.

Jaogen's final defense was pathetic, earning only jeers and scorn in his final moments before Drekthac took his head in a mighty blow. The crowds cheered and went wild. The bedwarmers threw down their tops, shaking their chests to give them ample bounce, while one even dropped her skirt for a view at her dark-curled mound. The men jeered and struck the women for offering themselves to the_ Whelp._

Drekthac took it all though, dropping his axe and spreading his arms for a victorious roar. Blood had splattered his naked chest, legs, and face, and everyone loved the look. He looked at the bedwarmers exposed and the whores, one whore even cheering while a man was buried inside her – with a mug of ale in hand, the man cheered too around his deep drinks and casual thrusts.

They cheered for him, and Drekthac took it all, satisfied with the response to his strength and victory.

Turning finally, he looked at the hosts while the noise began to dim, and he demanded, "Who dare steps inside the ring next? Who will stand between the Dragon and his prize?"

Laughs and cheers, at the Small Dragon – usually referred to as the Whelp. The lead host stood without his drink, slamming his armored wrist into the thick wooden rail. "And so the _human_ lives again! But now one more will clash muscle. One more will ensure that this Whelp is deserving of his skill and strength! And should he live again, he will have his prize! A confirmed virgin, caught from the snow just this morning!"

Cheers and jeers met the announcement. Virgins were high treats for this crowd, and Drekthac felt no different. Clearly, this slave would be a small race for him to enjoy, though often the brutes remorselessly tried their way with small races for fun. Not many girls lived the first night. Starkest among the jeering though where the bedwarmers, knowing that their easy-spread thighs would hold none of his attention with this prize.

The crowds parted though as the final challenger shambled through. Every night concluded the same way in Underhalls tournaments. In this home of the vargul, hosting tournaments in their halls meant they could take up arms yet again too. Each night, the champion must face and defeat one vargul before the night was through.

Silence greeted the fallen hero, as it always did. Vargul were contradictions in vrykul society, as the resurrected slain of those defeated in battle. All competitors of Valhalas were honored for their bravery and courage, no matter the outcome, yet with their defeat, all respect for their strength is lost. It made a strange reaction among them.

Standing in the ring now, the vargul planted his sword into the ground and roared with all the might he had left. As always, Drekthac never shamed the fallen warriors. Picking up the axe again, he set the end down and returned a roar of his own, accepting the challenge, and then they began.

As defeated warriors, one might assume the vargul to be weak – hardly a challenge for the average vrykul – yet it was the opposite. To even be allowed to enter Valhalas, one must have been a proven champion and great warrior. Knowing that, and despite the disregard to the defeated's strength, it was rare for vrykul to enter themselves into the tournaments in hope of claiming the title champion. Most, like Jaogen, were contestants, not competitors, who entered only to oppose the champion in combat – be it for blood feud, unsettled disagreements, or even the hope to win while the opponent was tried from prior matches.

The tournament was held around once a week, with only slave-pits or blood combat for the other nights, yet Drekthac always undertook trial for champion. He claimed his freedom through it, his place in the Jotunheim vrykul, his home, and more. Like everyone that showed up, he craved the blood and combat, and recognizing that, the vrykul further acknowledged his place among them.

The howl belonged to an animal, and the crowd shrieked their thrill. The vargul's blade had taken Drekthac right through the stomach, splattering blood over those behind in the crowd. But Drekthac didn't wait for his body to freeze or feel the pain, didn't let the wound cripple him. Howling, he kept his momentum forward, sliding forward down the sword with his hands above his head, and the vargul's eyes were wide when he realized the predicament.

The rotting arms went above his head, releasing the sword, just as Drekthac brought down his heavy axe. It cleaved through the wood bracers, through the iron bones, down just past the shaggy, balding skull and split the vargul down the middle from the shoulder. The undead warrior thrashed for a second, stumps for arms reaching towards him, so Drekthac lifting the axe up from the dripping, oozing ichor of its torso and let it fall again, finishing the split.

The crowds roared again, cheering and screaming, while Drekthac felt a rising swell of wooziness from his wound take him. He shuddered on his legs, dropping the axe, and then ripped the sword from his gut, scoffing at the blood that splashed out. A flesh wound. He turned back to the crowds, foregoing his usual victory cry as it would antagonize his wound, but he watched them cheer for him and chant his name.

Dragon.

Dragon.

Dragon.

His hand pressed over the front dripping hole in his stomach, and Drekthac looked up to the hosts again, waiting for their announcements. He lost no poise, refusing to slump or show weakness, and the pain didn't penetrate his raging adrenaline and boiling blood. He still panted from the fight, stretching the wound with each breath.

The leading sponsor stood again, a mocking smirk curving those thick lips. His fists beat down into the rail, gathering everyone's attention. Gardjon was his name. "Behold the champion of the Underhalls! The Whelp once again proves himself against a course of weaklings. And now the prize he's so tirelessly fought for!"

The crowds cheered as one of the other hosts dragged a rope forward, pulling the captive to the railing. As she came into sight though, the crowds immediately shut up, dying to only a very quiet murmur, and they looked to Drekthac for his reaction. His eyes only narrowed, making sure that the ropes indeed were tied to her and that she was meant to be his prize.

Growling, he demanded, "Is this some kind of joke?"

Gardjon picked up his mug of ale, smiling as he tipped it over for a long drink instead of answering. Everything was deathly silent now, besides the captive's sounds of weak struggle. Slamming his empty mug down, he leaned over the rail and gestured at the woman. "Why the face, Whelp? You can fuck her and eat her. A fine two in one!"

The other hosts laughed, as did their followers also in the box. The crowds around Drekthac looked to him and kept quiet when they noticed he did not join in. His eyes remained narrowed, lip curling up, and he began to step towards the high box. "I was promised a virgin, Gardjon! Instead you bring me this?"

On the ledge, a blue skinned Chill Nymph pulled at her bound hands. Her large eyes looked between Drekthac and Gardjon, knowing her fate rested between them. A half-elf, half-horse girl – that was to be the Underhalls champion's reward. The insult was obvious to everyone. As a broadcasted fuck prize, it could be no more insulting if the hosts had brought a plain horse.

Drekthac looked at the nymph again, seeing her wide eyes so desperate, and a dark feeling settled in his gut. His rage, on the decline after the fight, returned in a mounting fury. To Gardjon, he bellowed, "While I win favor in trial by combat, you sit on your scrawny ass and drink like you are some hero, and to a true champion, you have the gal to deal pigs as prizes? I declare challenge! In one week's time, meet me in the ring, Gardjon the Feeble! I will have your head for this insult, coward!"

The shouting antagonized his wound, but the pain only amplified his rage.

"Afraid to challenge me now, are you?" Gardjon asked, smile strained. His eyes were hot with rage at Drekthac's own insults. "Feeling unsteady on your stick legs, human?"

Drekthac knew better than to rise to the challenge. With his wounds, he wouldn't stand much of a chance against any real warrior. Knew better than to rise to it, but his rage wouldn't stand for it. Throwing his free hand back to the slain vargul, Drekthac declared, "I won't have _his_ blood be dishonored by mixing with _yours."_

Complete and utter silence. Not even a breath broke it. To insinuate that Gardjon was lower than a defeated warrior... The host sputtered first, then with a loud roar, broke the rail separating him and Drekthac. The human refused to flinch. Pointing at the night's champion, Gardjon hollered, "You dare, _Whelp?_ You dare equate me to that broken, slobbering trash? I will pull your heart from your chest, wear your entrails as a necklace, wipe my ass with your skin! Show up here again, and all of Icecrown will echo with your fickle, _human_ cries!"

Grabbing the nymph in his two hands, Gardjon threw the whole woman over the rail and into Drekthac. Cursing, Drekthac caught her mid-flail and braced his strong legs for the sudden weight. The girl cried out at the impact anyways, having hit him hard, and he set her aside, hissing furiously at the flaring pain from his wound.

"Go ahead and fuck your cattle, you sniveling child!" Gardjon shouted. "It is more than you humans deserve anyways! You probably couldn't pleasure her anyways with your, what, nine inched cock? Or is that too gifted for a human?" He spat at Drekthac, then turned and stomped from the pits. The other hosts slowly followed, glancing back at Drekthac.

With one hand on the back of the nymph and the other covering his bleeding wound, Drekthac looked at the crowds around him. None of the exposed women had suggestive looks, and all the men had faces of stone. Even the chained whores were looking away from the proceeds.

Eventually, one man lifted his polearm and slammed the butt into the stones with a loud thump. He did it again, at a measured pace, and then again. Another man joined by stomping in time with the polearm, and another with his fist against a pillar. A voice shouted, "Dragon!" to the beat.

All at once, the crowd took up the beat and chant, vibrating the entire Underhalls with each pound, and shouting, "Dragon! ...Dragon! ...Dragon!"

Drekthac's chin lifted at it, and he saw the respect returned in their eyes. The women smiled, and the men lifted their ale and beers. This crowd didn't care about race, about loud words or flashy armors. They came to watch the strong slay the weak, and they respected the strong. They came to watch him, the champion of the Underhalls, and they let him know.

Bending down, Drekthac grabbed a dagger (nearly a sword with its size to a human), and he cut free the whimpering nymph's hands. When she looked at him, he said, "Let's go."

The sniffling woman followed as he walked forward into the crowd, hand still over wound. Vrykul hands slapped his bare back and shoulders, roaring praise in Common and Vrykul. One thrust a full mug in his hands, and Drekthac gratefully drank, to their increased cheer. With a look to the nymph, he accepted another cup and handed it to her, gesturing for her to drink. She needed it more than him.

With the last of his, he splashed it over the wound, thinking the alcohol might keep at bay at least some infection, then smiled as one of the bedwarmers slid up to his side as he slowly moved through the crowd. She bent so he could kiss her, and his hand gladly fondled her for a brief moment before the crowds yanked her away, growling at the open affection for the human.

The usual jealous reaction of the crowd, and Drekthac saw the woman wink from where she had landed on her ass.

Finally, he took the nymph's wrist in his hand, and together he led her up the intricate halls from the pit back to the surface. The temperature dropped as the noise dimmed, until they reached the icy, howling winds at the entrance, and Drekthac released her wrist. She followed him back to his longhouse.

XxX

The nymph kept quiet as Drekthac bandaged his wounds. When he finished wrapping himself, letting the enchantments begin their healing work, he moved to his fire pit and set upon lighting one up. It was ice cold inside, though the nymph was clearly impervious to it. She had yet to move from where he left her, just at the end of his ramp down inside.

He filled a pot with water and hung it over the crackling fire, then found a filled pail and dropped a rag inside to soak. Wringing the rag out, he finally began wiping the blood off his skin, turning to her as he did. "You can relax. I'm not going to rape you or eat you."

The woman looked at his face, still with silvery tears making lines down her pale cheeks. Her hands dropped from clasped before her chest to hanging lower, over the girdle that separated elf from horse, and she took two nervous steps towards him. "Um... I'm... That is, my name is Leyanna."

He nodded at her. "I'm Baelin Drekthac. You can call me Drekthac, or just Drek if we're alone. Out there, you'll hear my title Dragon or the variants Small Dragon, Whelp, and so on."

Slowly, the frost nymph approached, obviously hesitant, and she looked down at the bandage – already seeped through with blood. "You were... impaled, the hole on both sides. Are you alright?"

After scrubbing the last of the blood from his face, Drekthac dropped the rag into the pail and washed it again to clean it. He smiled at her question. "I'll be fine, but my well-being should be the least of your concerns, Leyanna."

"I don't like it when living things are hurt," she admitted, stopping before him. He had to look up to see her face, with the horse-height. "Also, I am your... slave. If you are to die or be killed, I think what happens to me after will be very not good."

"Well, you're right on that. Very not good at all," he said, smiling slightly, then wincing when he accidentally pulled on his wound. Her eyes tracked his movement, and her lip quivered slightly at his flinch.

Finally, with her hands rubbing each other in unease, she asked, "Drek, how did you end up here? A human living with these... these ugly barbarian brutes!"

"With the vrykul?" he repeated, scrubbing his back now gingerly. There were some fresh cuts there still. He looked into her eyes, smile small. "Because I'm not much different from those ugly barbarian brutes. I fit in well here." Leyanna said nothing in response.

When he finished cleaning himself, Drekthac took the pail outside, dumped the bloody water, and scrubbed it clean with snow. The rag was already stained. Inside again, he closed and barred his door, then walked past the nymph to his fire, starting to put in the ingredients for a stew. He assumed she didn't like meat, but she'd have to just eat around it.

As he did, Drekthac finally said, "I'm sorry, by the way, for how I regarded you in the Underhalls. That bastard was using you as a harsh and humiliating insult against me, and I needed to show that I was angry. There weren't any... say, nice thoughts in my mind at the time."

Leyanna smiled for a brief moment before the look dropped. "It is good you don't think of me as a pig then. I think a horse would be more appropriate."

Unable to help himself, Drekthac found himself laughing, but quickly his hand came to his wound. "Ow, ow, ouch. Hahah, thanks for that."

Frowning and ears falling flat, Leyanna stepped closer and placed her hand over his wound. "Oh, let me. I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was making a joke." Her hand gained a green light, and nearly immediately, Drekthac felt the pain beginning to diminish at a slow pace. Before long, her breathing had become audible and the light died out, but the wound had reduced to a dull throbbing, as if he'd already had a full night of rest. "My healing magicks aren't that good, I'm afraid, but I hope that helped."

Drethac thanked her, but he sighed as he returned to the stew. "You nymphs are too kind. I don't like having one of you captured here, at the hands of one of us. You don't deserve it."

After a silent moment, Leyanna mentioned softly, "You say that you are the same as them, but I think you're wrong."

"Turn around for a second," Drekthac told her, throwing the last of the potatoes into the bubbling stew. Blinking at him, she did, turning her whole body away and not looking. "The champion of that trial today was to win a virgin. I competed in hopes of winning a woman for my bed, and if you were any other race, one more suiting to my tastes, I'd already have taken you onto that bed for my prize."

His palm camp upon her soft-furred rump and his thumb to her vulva. She jumped, head turning, while his finger pulled open her slit for the glimpse of a pale pink inside. "I just won't fuck this." His hand left her, and she quickly turned back around, cheeks tinged with color and expression displeased. "I know that you have a more elfin form you can take too, but I plan on getting rid of you, letting you go back free, and I heard that nymphs and dryads have weird ideas of attachment. I don't want you coming back because I seduce you once."

"Y- You're going to let me go?" she squeaked, still blushing.

Drekthac nodded as he cut in the meat. "Of course, eventually. I just don't want to let you go only for another plunder party to catch you."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Leyanna shouted, and her slender arms hugged him tight. The wound reminded him of its presence, so with a grunt, Drekthac pushed her off him.

"Until I'm healed and Gardjon's head adorns a pike outside my door, you aren't going anywhere though, so you better get comfortable first." He tasted his stew and nodded finally, pleased. It would be better if he waited for the contents to soak, but he was too hungry, and so filled two bowls for them. "Eat up. We both will need the strength."

X Beacon X

After patting down the dirt, he leaned against his shovel and let the icy wind cool the sweat on his brow. He wanted at the least a headstone to be made, something for the world to know just who was buried here, yet in present Northrend, that was impossible. Briefly, his mind flashed the image of her body – hacked and slashed to bits, blood staining everything red, and atop her shoulders a messy stump where the head should have been.

_Damn you, Mal'ganis. Damn you to hell._

Remembering her would always bring the Dreadlord to mind, and right now, remembering that demon returned his mind to the remaining Scarlet Onslaught trapped way up north, off the coast of Icecrown. The Dreadlords might have corrupted his brothers and sisters, strayed them from their cause, taken from him so many great friends and now the tough broad Brigitte Abbendis, but he refused to damn the rest to their deaths.

They were all brothers in Light.

"Sir Malthon! Sir Malthon Eyenhart!" a voice called, and he looked up from Brigitte's grave.

All around them was the broken, burnt ruins of New Hearthglen. The Horde had done the worst of it, too wrapped in the memory of the Scarlet Crusade at the Monastery to think of vying for peace. With Mal'ganis' whispers though, even with his concurrent goal of Arthas, he doubted that Abbendis would have accepted such a partnership anyways.

To the runner, he asked, "What is it, lad? Speak up now."

The boy caught his breath, nodding, then straightened himself. "I bring word from a Commander Jayce of the Scarlet Onslaught. He's got a full score of survivors, at a camp a few miles north of here. When we encountered some of your men, he recognized your name and asked if amends could be made. He offers to pledge his men under you, if you grant one request."

Malthon took a breath, glancing down at the grave again. One hand touched his golden beard, stroking it once as a small memory of Brigitte's disdain for facial hair this long touched his mind. "Do you know who lies here, boy?"

"Um, sir?" the messenger asked, looking down at the mound. There was no headstone to give it away. "I'm afraid I don't, sir."

The aged paladin sighed softly to himself, then stretched his back and returned his attention to the boy. "Your High General, the woman Brigitte Abbendis, lies in this grave. You boys left her corpse here to rot, headless and disregarded. Now, tell me what old Jayce requests."

"Uh, erm, right," the boy started, looking at the grave again with wide eyes. He didn't drop to his knee and pray for her spirit. To Malthon, he said, "Far to the north, up near Icecrown Glacier, there is a town of ours. Men, good men, are trapped there, without means of sailing or flying out. The commander requests that you rescue them and promises that you'll have his men and those from the Onslaught Harbor under your command."

_May the Light preserve you well, Brigitte. Hopefully far from that mad fool you called father._ "Tell Jayce that my men are already set upon the rescue. We leave at dawn, if he'd like to join us."

"Milord," the messenger acknowledged, bowing his head and saluting. He hesitated a second, looking at the grave again. On his own volition, he bowed his head and saluted to it, then turned and began running back. Malthon smiled, watching him go.

So, they were off to north, away from their means of leaving this wretched land. The Light would preserve them though. He felt it already guiding his spirit, much like it had when his wanderings took him right to the camps of the men presently under him. Just as it had in taking him back here, to lay Abbendis and all the other dead to proper rest.

North.

X Fallen X

"Well, you are certainly far from home," Sin de Rath said by way of greeting.

He was in deep Silithus, more than a few miles from the Scarab Wall that began Ahn'Qiraj. Yet, before him was a qiraji Battleguard, the very feminine humanoid that was one of the qiraji warriors. Strange that she and her kind had skin, as opposed to every other kind of qiraji, and thus covered up with long, hanging clothes and a short breastplate. Her face was veiled below the glowing teal orbs that were her eyes, and from the hip-less pants she wore, he could see where black, chitinous carapace began to replace skin down her legs, where they ended in exposed talons.

At his voice, the qiraji woman stopped her desperate flight, facing him and hovering. Her insectoid wings beat fast, keeping her upright as she stared at him. He knew what she'd see: a hooded warlock with dark tan skin, purple robes darker than her pink, a worn staff with a green crystal head. No demon was with him currently.

She didn't attack though, which said something had changed with her kind since C'Thun's death. Sin decided to give her a chance. "I don't know what had you in a hurry, Bugsy, but I've got some food and water if you want." He held up a skin for emphasis.

The qiraji hesitated, eyeing with her squinted eyes the skin, but slowly hovered forward when he gave it a shake. When she was close – enough for her hidden scythe to cleave him or for him to destroy with a spell – they both paused, tense and suspicious, and he smiled when the moment passed. His other hand removed his hood, showing dark hair cut short and his welcoming smile.

However, Bugsy, as he referred to, held up her sleeved arms, revealing the pointed red nubs and her clear inability to grab the skin. His eyebrow raised. "Well, that's... inconvenient. Want me to drop the veil and pour it in for you?"

Bugsy stared at him, no expression, no response. He realized she couldn't speak, though she might still understand him. "Alright, you need to work on moving from mind-controlled telekinesis to the Common tongue. I saw Sartura speak just fine, so don't act like it's not possible."

From behind that veil, a terrible and inhuman shriek rose and, in his mind, nearly broke his ears. A second try was quieter but no more help, and he waved off the attempts. "Enough. Work on it on your own time. For now, _nod_ if you want me to move the veil, and _shake_ if you don't," he said, giving example for the actions. "And land, if you would. All that buzzing makes me think a massive bee is only moments from giving me a heart attack."

Bugsy gently touched the sand and stooped forward on bent knees, then slowly nodded her head. Sin's lip turned up in a smile. _Well I'll be. A friendly qiraji._ Slowly, he reached up to her face and got his finger hooked under her veil. He was actually very curious as to what he might find beneath.

Her teal eyes remained fixed on him as he pulled the veil down and from her face. He did notice, from how the veil came free of the spiked, bug-eyed, and antenna-mounted frame around her face that all that was a headpiece, rather than physical traits. Then the veil came off, and he discovered her face.

Like the legs, black chitin began to form starting at the neck and crept up into thick slabs for the lower face of her face. Her mouth was a vertical split in the armor, but through thickness and curve it reassembled lips perfectly. She opened and closed her mouth, breathing in light pants, and Sin was drawn into watching with fascination.

He didn't stare for long. He brought the skin up and fit the end between her lips, then tilted it up to pour it in. He watched how her lips settled over the end and she swallow in deep gulps. From the eager way she went about it, he realized how thirsty she must have been. In this desert, that was to be expected though. He let her finish the whole skin.

Sheer curiosity had him wanting not only to leave her face uncovered, but the rest of her. Just how human was she? How insectoid? His eyes glanced to her breastplate, then down further to the band that held up her harem-esque pants. Instead, he found some wrapped bread in his pack and asked if she was hungry.

Bugsy nodded slowly but when he held up the food, her red nub touched his hand and stopped him. She shook her head then. Looking down though at the warm, hard object touching him, Sin saw the black line along the outsides that was the scythe and could whip out like sheathed sword.

He moved the bread away, considering her actions. "So you are hungry, but... you cannot eat bread?" She nodded. Sin frowned, wrapping it again and tucking it away. He thought about insects and what they might eat, but the only one that came to mind was bees – so perhaps she needed some sort of nectar, or maybe just softer food in general.

Did she have teeth? Could she not chew? Oh, he was very interested in her now.

"I guess we'll wait on that, Bugsy. So besides dying of thirst and hunger, what are you doing out here in the desert?"

One of the red-nubbed arms pointed south, exactly towards the ruins of Ahn'Qiraj. Her wings lifted her from the ground again and she drifted in that direction. Sin frowned, remembering that she hadn't been heading in that direction herself. "You are looking for something then. Something for Ahn'Qiraj – or perhaps your kin there?"

Bugsy nodded quickly, letting him know he was on the right track. He kept trying. "I remember there was plenty of water there, and likely whatever it is you eat. Are you looking for an object, like a weapon or..." She was already shaking her head, and he remembered her arms could not carry things. "Information then? You can't speak, but the telepathy... No? Perhaps a person?" She nodded again, and his eyebrows rose.

Now the game was getting fun. Sin had half a suspicion that the heat had overtaken him without his notice, and his mind was constructing this fantastic illusion of interacting with the once enemy and conversing. "A specific person, like one of your allied cultists?" A hesitant shake, then a nod, and another shake. He smiled. "If you're unsure, you can shrug, like _this._ But perhaps you mean that you are looking for anyone, cultist or otherwise, right?" A nod. "That means you need help?"

Finally, Bugsy nodded quickly. Sin rubbed his chin, remembering he'd need to shave again as soon as he was away from the desert. In a final gander, he asked, "Could I be that help?" Bugsy nodded again vigorously, and a small sound escaped her parted lips, as if she were excited. Something about the situation made Sin smile, and he felt himself nod. He was here in Silithus for a reason, but... frankly, it wasn't truly important he get it done immediately.

This was far, far more interesting than the check-up on cultist activity.

Rubbing his chin again, Sin said, "I'll help you, Bugsy, but we better have some method of communication. This 'yes' or 'no' will get very tiring."

Abruptly, she flew right at him, landing where they were almost touching in a quick movement. Reflexes almost had him blast her from the sky, but he withheld it, just barely. Bugsy's unveiled face was thrust up nearly into his, pleasantly feminine apart from the headpiece and black chitin, but his eyes stared into hers as they bored into his. Those teal, pupil-less orbs. They drew him in again, captured every fiber of his attention, and seemed to be getting larger and larger and...

Her forehead touched his. Sin's mind exploded with visions, memories, attached with communication that was entirely alien to him yet understood. He was inside Ahn'Qiraj again, the population weak after the havoc wrecked by all-flesh-men. His sisters were bunched and regrouped, a few hundred yet so few compared to before.

Another memory, a few green-all-flesh-men with axes saw his sisters, and with loud mouth-sounds, they began running for her sisters. They fought, they died. The green-all-flesh-men were stronger, but the sisters were many and barely managed to win the fight. Confusion, fear. They wanted to be safe.

More all-flesh-men, these ones purple, and more of his sisters died. More fear. The nest moves further away, hoping to not be found again. Less sisters are with them now. None are worthy to reproduce; no queens.

Brothers come. Arguments. They want to leave, to attack the all-flesh-men again. His sisters argue that the queen is too weak for expansion, that they are not worthy to be queens yet. The brothers are mad. Betrayal. More fighting. Brothers and sisters die. Brothers are stronger. Sisters flee.

Nowhere safe. Brothers kill sisters if found. Cannot stay at Home. Cannot leave Home. Confusion. Fear. Fear. Fear. They need help. Someone needs to help them. Someone from Outside needs to take them Outside. The Outside all-flesh-men need to show them how, how to expand without resistance and death.

Sekara is chosen.

Abruptly, the stream ended, and Sin found himself back at his body. He stumbled back away from Sekara, hand going to his head. His skull throbbed and pounded at the invasion, and he gasped for breaths. Sekara. Her name is Sekara, and those were her memories. She had... planted them within his mind, made him see, made him know.

"I'm human, not all-flesh-man," Sin grunted as the effects began to subside. Sekara only stared at him, waiting. His hand moved away finally, and he frowned, considering her position and request. "You want to migrate from your hives. The whole bloody lot of you want to live somewhere else, and you want me to show you where it would be safe to."

He shook his head to clear the last of the haze, then stood up straight, gathering himself. Looking into her eyes, he said, "I can lead you, take you place to place and such, but if you want a safe place to live, you're going to have to get in line. The whole world is war and hell, and you lot under C'Thun were only one of many _expanders_, as you'd call it. Best you could do is join a big faction like the Alliance or Horde, but even if you could manage that, they are tearing each other to bits at any chance."

He took a deep breath, glancing at the sandy plains around them, then looked at her again. From her memories, he recognized she was afraid. He sighed, thinking the matter through. He knew what he could do, but it was not a decision to be made lightly. He had to absolutely sure of it, knowing it would change his whole life.

It would be dangerous too, even if he was he could trust the qiraji Battleguards. Would he really drop everything and change his whole life for this race of bug women that once tried slaughtering the whole known world? Looking at Sekara, seeing her fear, he felt that he just might. He always wanted to help people, to make a difference, and had taken a dark path to accomplish that goal – and managed without ever losing himself.

Despite the wacky chance meeting here, despite the apparent ease of things, he knew what would happen when he made his decision. Finally, he shut down his repeating doubts, realizing that he really didn't care. It wasn't like he had any specifics plans for his future anyways; it might even be fun.

"Alright, listen here, Sekara. Instead of trying to settle down somewhere, you can stick with me. I've traveled the world, I know what ways are safe and what aren't. You'll have to take up training for combat again, but we can move around as a light army. And if the chance comes we find a place that won't be molested by someone else, you can settle down again. You would be under my leadership for this, but... I think, from your memories, that what you guys want. Someone to replace C'Thun and lead you again."

Sin de Rath the Mad. That's what they'd call him for this. The human that anointed himself leader of the qiraji battleguards. Well, whatever. They would just be jealous that he got to lead around an army of women dressed like harem girls.

Sekara gave no real answer to the proposal though, only a nod and another gesture towards the ruins of Ahn'Qiraj. Sin followed.

XxX

At nightfall, Sin stopped them for camp and to rest. They shared another skin of water, and with Sekara's approval, he made the bread soggy before letting her slurp it down. She grimaced at it, but food was food. The cold quickly began to set in as they ate, until Sin was considering starting a fire. Wood would be impossible to find around here, but as a warlock with spells involving flames...

He decided against it in the end, just setting up a bedroll and unfolding some blankets. By the Light and Shadow, he hated sand. Sitting on the edge of it though, he saw Sekara was unmoving from where she had eaten, merely sitting down ungracefully with her legs before her. It took a moment to recall the bowels of Ahn'Qiraj, with his brief time in the armies before his abrupt death, but he remembered that it was warm and humid there.

How did this Bugsy sleep? Could she even handle the cold nights outside the hive? They were still a few miles off from the Scarab Wall, and he was not fond of traveling at night here, where he might stumble into a cultist camp or encounter one of Silithus' many predators.

"Hey, Sekara," he started, turning his gaze from the red moon back to where she was slumped in the shadows. "Are you going to be alright with the cold?" He caught the shrug she gave and frowned. He drawled, "You don't know? That's not exactly a reassuring answer. I don't have any spare blankets, but... well, this bed can hold two, if you think it would help."

She stared at him, eyes a shining green on her shadowed face. The offer made him think though. Between the large, pincer protrusions on her shoulders and the wings, he wasn't quite sure how to fit them under a blanket. Also, if these qiraji women handled cold like humans did – or worse, as he suspected – he'd need a way to keep them well in the multiple day exodus through Silithus, to Un'Goro at the least.

The fliers were fast, at least. He wondered if they might utilize the silithid hives along the way...? It was be long, hard marches to hive-hop each day, not to mention the silithid resistance.

He snapped from his thoughts when he noticed Sekara was standing before him, waiting. Sin's lips quirked in a slight smile. Leaving his soft boots on the sand, he pulled back the blanket and laid at the far end of the bed. He offered his hand to her, then remembered the red nubs. However, after a moment's hesitation, she extended her arm to him, and, nearly laughing, he guided her to the bed, arm in hand.

Sin de Rath the Mad, he'd be called.

Once she was seated though, he ducked under one of her wings and reached around her to her feet – those smooth-shelled, two-toed talons – and brushed away the sand and dust before setting them on the bedroll. He was glad to not feel any discomfort touching the limbs. Though, when he leaned back again with his hand on a shoulder-pincher to get around, his stomach did flip with queasiness when the extra-limb twitched under his hand.

They sat beside each other awkwardly for a moment. She remained sitting up – not trapping her wings beneath her – and glanced at him, expressionless behind her veil. Sin sighed, propped up on one arm and rubbing his chin. "Promise you won't try grabbing me with those pincers on your shoulders and I'll let you get atop me."

Her silence was the worst of it, Sin thought to himself as they clamored around in the attempt to work a position out. What she was thinking over the predicament or what might be more comfortable, what she thought of him, whether or not she was going to hack him to shreds in the next moment – he had no way of knowing.

Finally, he was flat on his back, and the qiraji rested atop him, wings giving a brief flutter before going still. Their eyes met for a moment, but he quickly reached down to find the blanket. At least her wings folded down and close to her body, letting him get the cover of them, and once he did, the silence made its ugly appearance again.

Sekara's skin was warm, he noticed, though the chitin where it touched him was cool. As their eyes met again, he noticed that she never blinked. She had eye lids and brows, and her gaze could narrow, but never did they shut fully – he assumed it had something to do with eyes that weren't wet. Presently, the narrow cast of the teal orbs made it look like she was laughing or amused, though he highly doubted either.

As they stared at each other and the silence bugged him, he cut in with, "So... let's try the whole mind-talking thing again, but without the psychic rape this time. Can you connect us where we can just... talk?"

He felt the hard presence of her breastplate slide up his chest as she lifted up, and she gave a slow, hesitant nod. Her head moved right before his, close enough to kiss, and their eyes locked again. He felt the mental tug this time, just as her eyes tried drawing him in. He let himself fall into them, watched them grow bigger and bigger in his vision, and finally felt her forehead touch his.

The world fell away as he knew it, and he closed his eyes, watching from within. Except it wasn't watching – there was no sights. Foreign sensations touched his mind, light as a breeze, and then the presence gave a small push, _touching_ him (that was the best he could describe it to himself) and when it did, thoughts consolidated in his mind that were clearly not his own.

_Human._

It wasn't words, not like the kind spoken between people. But if one were to think of 'desert' without saying the name in his mind, it was the same effect. Sin smiled at it, realizing it was Sekara speaking to him. Unable to perform the same trick, he settled for soft whispering in response, still with his eyes closed.

"Hello, Sekara."

_Much gratitude from me._ The barrage took him a second to piece together, and he realized he could translate it different ways. She shared a feeling of thanks, coming from her. _Much gratitude from my sisters._ A feeling of thanks, coming from the qiraji Battleguards.

"You're welcome. Tell me, can I trust you and your sisters?"

Her fear colored her thoughts like a person's expression when he spoke. _We need help. We need Outsider. Lead us, and we will follow. We will listen to Outsider faithfully. We are faithful._

Sin grimaced at the rush of thoughts. He could piece together the meaning before putting exact words to it, but his mind wasn't efficient at wordless-thoughts the same way she was. He needed the words.

"My name is Sin de Rath. You can call me that instead of Outsider." Her thoughts touched him in acknowledgment, yet he felt it had closer ties to an image of his face than the words of his name. How utterly bizarre. "There is... so much I want to ask you, but we would be up all night before I could be satisfied. I'm very curious about you and your kind. I'll keep it short though. Do you sleep? Are you comfortable like this?"

_I will not die of cold. I will rest like this._ The 'this' was an odd mush of her position atop him, the bed he lay upon, the blanket over them, the cold air separated from her body, and the warmth she could feel from him. _Ask questions, and Sekara will answer Sin de Rath. Sin de Rath may know everything of the Family so Sin de Rath may trust my sisters. Do not trust the brothers._

"Yes, I remember the brothers, those we call qiraji Gladiators. To say this now, do not trust any all-flesh-men that are not me. They will kill you in fear or in hate." He paused, getting his arm around her lower back. She was so very light atop him, with a weight belied by her size. "I will try to keep you and your sisters safe, Sekara, but for now, let us sleep."

Before separating their mental link, she mentioned, _We will trust Sin de Rath. Sekara will be your servant._ Servant – the complete and total submission and obedience she attached to the word surprised him. It was something equated to almost mind-control, like the will of C'Thun that she had been subjected to before.

Was that her trust in him, or was it something closer to the drone-mentality of insects? Sin couldn't know, but he felt sure she would do anything he asked. He grimaced at the thought, but whatever her choice, he did not have to seize advantage of it.

Her forehead lifted from his, and Sekara repositioned herself lower, where she could be more comfortable with him. He looked down at her, making sure the antennas of her helmet wouldn't take out an eye, and tightened his hold over her. He felt strangely protective of her.

_Sleep well, Sekara._

X Unknown X

_It is said that it takes great power to materialize oneself on the the physical plane. When it comes to power, "great" has always been a relative word._

In the far north, a meteor pierced the veil of the sky. Purple flames escorted its path, painting a flickering dot against the ghost lights of Northrend. It's path was directly downward, unnatural to any astronomers that studied similarly falling objects. Not even warlocks could direct their infernals so linearly. It ripped through the low hanging, fluffy clouds, seen to be a massive black chunk with its violet wreaths.

_When the universe was young, they had been its masters. Creatures born from tears in the fabric of space, their blood the ether of the Twisting Nether. "Maturity," "growth" had not been a concept when they gained awareness of themselves, of the changes around them that they could cause. There was no "empathy" or "emotions" to drive them then. Existence was not a struggle of "survival," "discovery," or "pleasures." Existence was Chaos, to rise against the empty stagnation that always was. They were the accidental life._

On the icebound steps before the prison-city Ulduar, the meteor made its landing. It dented the snowy earth with its impact, yet the rippling shockwave of its touch was not one of physical force. Like sonar, a perception strengthened the waves, driving them further and further, listening to every crevice and feeling every object touching the surface of this planet. It could feel the lives native here, created here, and those Down Below, imprisoned and chained in their ever-dreaming states.

_They did not fight. The frugality of slapping two rocks together was of similar nature, and equally meaningless. They did not communicate either; they were all born of Chaos, of the same motivations and existence. Does water tell other water that it will be wet? Communication, language, words, the sounds of tongues or images of minds – such came into existence when the universe breathed life into others. Others also born of a volatile, symbiotic universe._

Other meteors ripped through the sky, directed down in the same manner. In a ring outside the current crater, they slammed down, and from the smaller impacts, humanoid shapes rolled out. They stood to their feet and slowly dragged their feet towards the rim of that they had surrounded. Their faces peered down to what was within, but not with eyes.

_Such a simple world, the one called Azeroth. Yet through the same accidents that had birthed them all, the young gods came to make the planet in their image after the old gods had decided to do the same. Conflict was inevitable, and the five who came to master the world found themselves defeated. Then the false god who called himself Destroyer found defeat there, from the offspring of gods both young and old. The same children that destroyed the physical bodies of two elder gods._

Ghat'nothos sniffed the icy airs around him. The spilled blood of a god reached his nose, and his lips peeled back in the mocking image of a smile. How ironic that The Lucid Dream would fall here, to the people of his making. He could feel the delicious anguish of the land from the spilled blood, the final spite of a fallen god. Gnashing its maw, he also felt the corpse of a second god decomposing with great agony into the soils of this wretched world. Two gods had fallen on this planet, without Usurper intervention.

_So the mortals could handle, barely, the might of a god still weak from throwing off the shackles of his prison. They could win, given time to gather their strength and recruit to them beings of greater power... Let them boast the same against The Always Watching, in the full of his strength. Let them boast the same when the first strike is against them._

* * *

AN: **Please read before continuing:**

Though I have no desire to write stories professionally (IE. published and bound), I am at the point where I want to meet that quality. This story is progressive, for even the posted parts to be polished as we go. That will entitle changes to the past that you may want to reread. I'll keep you posted if such changes occur. Additionally, if you choose to review, I would greatly appreciate it if you would speak with painfully high standards and go into great detail what you like and do not like about this story. If the parts following one character becomes too long and boring (Perrin Syndrome from WoT), or someone's personality/decisions too un-relatable, or the descriptions unclear or lacking (and so on), then please bring it up in the review and explain why. (Ignore quality of diction and focus on the story telling for this. Also, I already know the beginning is abrupt with jumping right into the story.)


	2. Prologue, Dusk

reality deviant: The scenes from the previous were actually an excerpt from this chapter, as you'll soon see. Length-wise, this is still the prologue, so it'll jump around like this, but starting next chapter, each person gets whole chapters devoted to only one. As for the Cthulhu mythos, I've considered it, but I haven't read the works myself yet. I don't know if I will, though Sin de Rath's part in this hits close to it.

**Note:** On capitalization, since it jumps around in game sometimes (val'kyr/Val'kyr, warlock/Warlock), I've standardized it as race and class as lowercase, and organizations as upper. For example, Narelle is both a night elf warden and a sentinel, who is part of the Watcher division of the Sentinels. Sekara is a qiraji warrior and one of the Battleguards. Call me out on if it seems like I mix this up somewhere.

* * *

Prologue

_Dusk_

* * *

X Fallen X

"Alright, time to talk, Sekara. You've been antsy all day, and you're starting to worry me," Sin said finally. His companion swerved towards him in a quick motion and stared with her unreadable eyes. The whole day since they woke, she had moved in quick bursts, completely unlike before, and her head turned side to side ceaselessly like she was searching for something. The drawing and wave of her scythe-arm in a futile gesture was the final straw for him.

The qiraji woman flitted up to him then, landing close, and her head touched his in a quick motion, eyes wide. Sin felt the mental link form between them again, but rather than the gentle conversation of last night, she forced upon him memories again, with desperate thoughts.

A feeling blossomed inside his chest, something vaguely familiar. Far, far to the north, something had come, something... something like... Another memory slammed into his head, and Sin saw C'Thun, felt the old god tearing into his mind to levy commands. There was a certain sense of presence from the great master-queen-controller, and abruptly Sin connected the feeling with the presence from up north.

Last night, he was in the arms of Sin de Rath. Warm, safe, resting. Master-queen-controller-but-not came with abrupt presence, to the far north, and master-queen-controller-but-not demanded he come to obey. His brothers and sisters must go north and obey. Fear. Strong fear. He doesn't want to obey, he wants to live safe. The master-queen-controller ruined the Family. They should not expand. The brothers will join master-queen-controller-but-not. The sisters must be warned, must know that Outsider Sin de Rath is coming.

Fear.

Fear.

Fear.

_Save us!_ Sekara screamed into his mind with her thoughts, and she tore her head away from his, breaking the link.

Sin gasped, clutching his head at the throbbing pain left behind from her implants. It was like maggots burrowing through his skull. "What... the fuck?" Master-queen-controller. C'Thun. Old gods. "There's... There's another old god? By the Light and Shadow, _no!_ Where did it come from?" Sekara stared at him, her fear so obvious now. They had already passed the Scarab Wall.

With a growl, Sin forced himself forward without waiting for his head to clear. His hand came to her back beneath the wings, and he pushed her forward. "Let's go. We need to reach your sisters." He worked them to a moderate run, heading up the slopes to the temple and hive. Sekara kept pace easily.

XxX

When Sekara urged Sin to descend into the hive, he began to hesitate. He remembered the organic catacombs with warm, damp air and its musky scent, crawling with silithid and qiraji. His feet slowed to a stop at the threshold, memories tearing to the forefront all at once. Monsters of immense size, spitting acid and death from their chattering maws, springing from the ground and walls in sudden ambushes...

Armies clashed and ripped each other to shreds. Men were pulled away, limbs cut away by sharp mandibles and jaws, and bugs exploded as powerful spells impacted their bulging bodies. Everyone ran forward to the masters of these bugs in the desperate vie for victory, knowing the fate of Azeroth rested on their shoulders.

Gladiators smashed into their lines, throwing men aside, while Battleguards swooped over and decapitated allies with frightening ease. Arrows took some from the skies, but they weren't human. Those apparent unarmored bodies took spells and bolts like they were steel and flew off, hidden in the hive. They weren't human!

A noise, a tremble. Sin turned quickly, summoning up a powerful wave of shadow, but too late he realized it was beneath him. A silithid burst from the ground, bloated and hideous, and its gnashing jaws reached his throat. Pain, trauma – Sin saw his blood spurting around the pink strands of his neck as the bug pulled it out, then fell to the dirt. He tried moving and felt painful twitches of his body. His strength couldn't be mustered, and suddenly the warm air began to feel very... very... cold...

The trance broke when something tried pulling his hand. Sin started violently, and he saw the two nubs of a Battleguard's arms trying to pull at his hands. The scythes! They'd cut him apart in seconds! He threw his staff up, summoning demonic flames and the shadows of the void, about to end the bug's life in a millisecond.

He froze with the staff inches from Sekara's face. The green and purple illuminated that veiled face, the teal eyes wide with worry. Not human worry, he realized, but qiraji worry. He knew the expression from Sekara's memories. Yet, there wasn't fear. Not for her own life, not at his sudden explosion, and her eyes didn't leave his face.

Breathing hard with sweat creeping down his forehead and neck, Sin severed the spell he'd gathered and quickly aimed his staff away from her. He fell to a knee, trying to regain control of his breathing and heart. Still Sekara tried pulling him forward, down back into the hive that once claimed his life.

With weary eyes, he stared at the companion and suspected her again. So eager to drag one human into the enemy's domain, alone, with only veiled words and unproven promises. She could be leading him right into a trap, and he'd never know. Not even with a soulstone could he escape, either. They'd eat his corpse at worst, but at best, they'd catch him before he could make it back out.

Only a mad man would go down there alone. Only a mad man.

His aching mind throbbed again, and foreign memories jumped up again. Sekara's strong fear, her desperation and trust in him, the feeling of the old god to the far north. The world was not a safe place anymore, and everything she had given of herself told him she was willing to trust him to see both her and her sisters through it.

"Sin de Rath the Mad," he growled, standing up again. He was glad to be without his demons though, knowing the lack of control that Sekara's mind tricks were doing to him would make matters very dangerous for a warlock. He needed control, needed enough mental mastery and fortitude to resist the effects of the Battleguard's mind link.

In his mind, his emotions were cloaked in shadows. It was a trick taught to young warlocks to help master demons, to not lose themselves in the battles of dominance. He felt safer in shadows, knowing it was his place, and that he joined the creatures of night that also made it their refuge.

He had no way of knowing if Sekara or the Battleguards could be trusted apart from her implanted memories. Despite it all though, he took a step forward, past the hive's threshold, and committed himself to whatever horrors waited beyond. Time would tell if Sekara was genuine or if he really was mad.

XxX

"Are you alright?" Sin asked, dismissing Drooshon with a wave of his hand. The felhunter stopped its hostile advance towards Sekara and vanished.

Between him and the Battleguard was the fresh corpse of a Gladiator. It had snuck up on Sekara with surprising subtlety as she led them, and with no time to properly warn her, Sin had jumped on it with powerful attacks, summoning Drooshon in the process. With it dead now, Sekara nodded to him and turned in the air, wings beating fast.

Before continuing down the halls, Sin noticed the fast approach of something else from down there. He saw pink clothes on a flying figure much like Sekara and recognized her as a Battleguard, another one of those that he had come to help lead. Also noticing the woman, Sekara abruptly flew forward to meet her, and Sin followed at a slow trot.

The flyers did not slow as they came closer though, and Sin's brows furrowed. He broke into a full run when he saw Sekara's arm swing up into its mantis-style scythe and attack the other Battleguard. The second qiraji gracefully swung under, kicking at Sekara, then finished her spin to continue in Sin's direction.

He paused, frowning, while his hands tightened their hold over his staff. She could just be coming to meet him, but with Sekara's hostile reaction, he knew something was off. Perhaps warning him of the coming trap? Or perhaps the 'sisters' had joined the 'brothers' in Sekara's absence with the arrival of the new old god.

With that ear-splitting shriek of hers, Sekara darted after the Battleguard. Sin knew he needed to make a decision before either was close enough to kill him. To blast from the air Sekara or the new girl or both. Something struck his memory then, and he found out how to know which to trust.

"Sekara, STOP!" he bellowed, throwing all the authority and command he used over his demons into his voice. His lip twitched as, despite her agitation and restlessness, the woman that once called herself his fully devoted servant stopped herself in the air.

Well, it didn't make much sense that this other Battleguard would concern herself with his safety anyways.

Thrusting his staff forward, Sin unleashed a twisting spiral of shadow, then muttered a short phrase and dragged the crystal end from the ground to a sharp jab into the air. Flames erupted around the Battleguard, and her smooth flight jerked around at once – enough for her to not dodge his shadow spell.

The flaming insect woman was knocked back, and she fell from the air into the organic wall. Her body hit a glowing pocket of orange, popping it like an eyeball and spilling bright ooze over her ignited body. The Battleguard wasn't dead yet though, screeching with obvious agony, and he waved Sekara forward as he approached the detained sister.

Rather than come right for him, Sekara flew past the Battleguard, and with a sweep of her arm, decapitated her. Graceful in the air still, she turned to him and approached at full speed. Sin's eyes narrowed as he prepared himself for a sudden betrayal, yet Sekara dropped too low for the usual sweeping attacks and slowed just before she would collide with him.

For the last few feet, Sekara touched down to the ground. She ran the final steps right to him then nearly bashed her forehead against his. The link formed quickly between them as it usually did. Sin both relaxed himself, lowering his staff from its vertical block against her chest, and then readied his mind for her unavoidable assault.

But rather than thrust memories against his psyche, Sekara only sent thoughts over. _Sister was with new-master-queen-controller-but-not and brothers. Would not listen that Outsider Sin de Rath has come for lead-safe-away-home expanding. Sekara wished to protect Sin de Rath from hostile sister. Deep sorrow and regret from me at betrayal. Sekara promised sisters could be trusted._

In the shadowed mind of a warlock, Sin found the bludgeoning thoughts easier to take. "It's alright. Thank you, Sekara, for not betraying me. Have all of your sisters turned to the old god?"

_The all-mind was not complete in hostile sister's mind. Many sisters still wait for Sekara, but there is much fear. If Sin de Rath does not come soon, they will choose servitude to new-master-queen-controller-but-not. They will follow the... old god. Sekara- _I_ want sisters to be Sin de Rath's servants. I like Sin de Rath._

What Sin's mind translated as 'Sekara' and 'I' from here had two feelings. The name was her face, her body – much like her regard for his name – yet other times she'd regard herself, something within, something... like the part of her that wasn't the servant. Sekara's will.

Somewhat experienced with the strange sensations now of her mind and talk, Sin managed to take it all with a sense of calm. "Then let us hurry, and by the Shadow, let your faith in me be well-founded."

X Ranger X

"Alright, everyone listen up," Thomas said, crouching down with the two dozen or so that offered themselves to help lead the masses. "Down this ridge is a demon base called Forge Camp Anger. Their forces are facing one way though and that's inland. Once we get past there, it's a clear shot nearly the rest of the way, and we'll be feasting in the Ruuan Weald by tonight."

Their eyes remained fixed on him, clearly eager for him to cash in on the promise of food. Shipments had stop coming to Sunfury bases years ago, with conjured foods only temporary sustenance and only Netherstorm's mana-beasts to eat otherwise, and they were down to their last rations. However, their exhaustion was obvious by how they didn't show much concern over this demonic hurdle.

"I've got a plan for how we can get by, but it's going to take some help to get all of us through. First we are going to need priests. There's a way on the outside of the forge camp that's hidden from sight, right at the edge of the world. To get to it though, we are going to need to climb on one of the spines and jump – with the help of the priest's levitation – onto a lower one a few yards below. I think we can manage it in groups of ten, with the priests leaving last.

"To do this completely unnoticed though, we are going to need a distraction. Find whatever rangers remain with you elves and send them to me. We will go first and sneak to the other side of the camp and wreck enough havoc to have their eyes all turned forward – and away from us. Once everyone is down, it's a clear run between the spine-wall and the cliffs of the camp for us, and we can cross the plains free of ethereals right into the forests, and that's the elves' domain."

Clasping the shoulder of a nearby Bloodwarder, Thomas said, "Hear that? You'll be back to the trees again, when we get through. Now, if you have any questions about this, ask now. Otherwise, get me those rangers."

"Will you really let us go free when we're through the Dark Portal?" one woman asked, grave. Her dead eyes were unflinching in their stare when Thomas looked over.

His nostrils flared as he stood from his crouch. "Those are not the questions I'm answering... but look around you, Bloodwarder. There's hundreds of you, and the men trust this group of you, not me. If we get through, I do not have the strength to stop any of you from just leaving or from killing me."

The woman stood as well, a silver haired and tan skinned warrior in heavy plate armor. With the eyes on her, she removed her gauntlets, throwing the metal down, and undid the buckles up the side of her armor before throwing it over her head. She knelt again to undo her boots and leg plates, then finished standing up, barefoot and wearing only the tight cloth underarmor.

"Many of us Bloodwarders started as rangers. You will have my bow."

XxX

"Go!" Thomas commanded quietly, waving his arm to the south. Around him, the rangers ran past, all blended with shadows to where he could see crusted earth through their bodies. Standing, Thomas drew and fired, taking a searching pursuer in the eye, then sprinted after the elves, calling the shadows over him as well.

He covered the rear, ensuring that no demons would reach them first. They all would fire while moving, but as they neared the spine wall, three of the elves stopped entirely, calling magic to their nocked arrows. The tips gathered flame, and they each aimed high. The exploding shots screamed high above them.

Thomas watched as the demons looked up, trying to find the sound, and then the arrows hit the ground far behind them with loud explosions and rings of flame. The war horn resounded with blaring insistence, calling the demons back to the lines. Gurgling and grunting, they turned from the pursuit and sprinted back to where the arrows had landed.

Standing from where he had crouched to be invisible, Thomas gained the eyes of the shooters and nodded to them. They nodded back, and together the group of them continued running to the the cliffs, where they found the lower ridge already packed with the refugees. They slid down to rejoin them and received quiet cheers.

Thomas made his way back to the lead of them.

XxX

The music and celebration was distant from his perch, though Thomas was sure everyone in the forest could hear the commotion. _Perhaps it wasn't best to rest at the edge of the Ruuan Weald._ Peering into the thorny canyon, his eyes could make out the shapes of ogres. So far none had noticed his army residing above them.

Once he finally gave the word that they could stop and make camp, the elves had thrown themselves into the construction, suddenly rejuvenated. Their enthusiasm and spirits had raised with every step through the forest, until some had raised song as they marched. Elven song seemed somehow natural in the woods, normal as the chirping of birds.

He left them to themselves though, escaping to the thorny cliff and climbing down a spire. For hours, he had sat at that edge, precariously balanced over a long fall and watching over the ogre territories. They were the only threat out here, with the elimination of the Wyrmcult some time ago. His thoughts preoccupied him the whole while as he watched the sky darken to the Outland true night and heard the elves come to life behind.

Game had been caught, berries and fruits foraged, and fresh water drawn from nearby springs. For the first time in too long, the blood elves found joy. They ate full meals and bathed away months of grime. Like the phoenix they had taken as their symbol, they were reborn, and they had no qualms against letting it show. They deserved it, Thomas felt, and so kept away.

As he watched from ahigh, something made his lips turn up in a brief, fleeting smile. He said softly, "If you've come to put an arrow in my back, you may find yourself disappointed."

Silence and a passing breeze followed the comment, until a woman's voice said, "It's true then. You have received ranger training."

There was six of them, the closest already standing on the spine behind him. He spoke without turning: "Only one human has ever been trained to be a ranger, and I am not him."

"Yet you perceived me from twenty paces," she insisted.

"Thirty paces, and the oaf with the chicken breath since the treeline," he clarified.

He could hear them shifting around, probably to stare at the man in question. A soft, masculine laugh followed. The woman spoke again, voice hard, "You were trained. You cannot deny you've played the Game of Foxes."

Thomas himself laughed, pushing himself up to a crouch on the rock limb. He faced them now, seeing bows in hand yet no arrows nocked. "It was a game of touch, the kind for children to play. Humans aren't allowed to be rangers. I was taught nothing."

"You don't work shadows like a rogue, and you left no touch in the forest. Those eyes of yours are human, but I witnessed your shots with a bow. No human performs like that – no _elf_ performs like that – without ranger training. I bet if we were in the forest right now..." She left it hanging.

Thomas' lips quirked in a smile. "Do you want to play, elf? To tussle with foxes? You want to see how I measure up against full rangers as a human?" The woman's green eyes were narrowed, wary, while the five behind were very lax. She was a redhead with her hair pulled back in a bun, wearing tight leathers that didn't creak – the joints were cloth – and a stern expression like the rogue trainers Thomas had been disciple of. "I will play, but you will find I am no fox."

One of the men stepped forward, a lean blond sporting an amused smile, and he stayed the woman with a hand on her shoulder. To Thomas, he said, "We are not here to judge you, only to confirm. If your training saves the lives of our people, then each of us are glad for it, and you're ability... we haven't seen its like since the Windrunner's."

The redhead though pressed, "We'd like to know who broke their oath to train you though. It is a simple curiosity."

"Again with questions," Thomas sighed, giving her a flat stare. "You want proof then, blood elf? Rangers are known for their affinity with nature. Take from me my mana, all of it, and see how well I use it to touch nature."

She glanced to her companions, who shrugged, then looked back at him with a furrowed brow. Raising her hand, she pulled at his core, withdrawing his mana to feed her carefully contained addiction. Barely a blue wisp escaped his chest and vanished. Her eyes went wide, and she stuttered in astonishment, "Im- Impossible!"

"I couldn't tell even the direction of the wind with my mana reserves," Thomas informed them simply. "Even if there had been a ranger willing to break his oath, to devote himself to training a human, I could never join the ranks of you. I'm as vanilla as humans can get. Now relieve yourselves of the sanctity of your order and go rejoin the festivities while they last. The time to march will come again, and we will have to leave the forest."

Slowly and without another word, the rangers withdrew, and Thomas sat again at the edge. His eyes narrowed as he watched the ogres again, while his thoughts turned inward. He hadn't tried being subtle; he'd actually been quite open about his abilities when he led them against the demons. Despite it all, he'd forgotten the elven pride regarding their rangers.

The conversation though reminded him of his younger years, always spent in the forests. The chases through the woods, the games of shadows and sound, paranoia and childish fun. He'd never been fast enough, never quiet enough, always reaching and reaching without ever grasping that fantastic skill and expertise. Humans couldn't be rangers, was the empty promise he'd always received.

_Wherever you are, you better not get yourself killed before I come back._

X Beacon X

"You sure you're in the right place, crusader?"

Malthon looked over his shoulder to the gruff innkeeper. Already he could sense Jayce's response to the welcome. The Scarlet forces, either Crusade or Onslaught, weren't known for reason, nor were they regarded warmly by anyone outside their close circles. With his hand laying an alleviating touch on the paladin's wrist, Malthon greeted the Wintergarde man:

"Peace, friend. I promise you'll have no trouble from us in our passing. Just looking for a few more horses for our men, then we will be far to the north."

The keep gave them a cockeyed stare, but Malthon was sure he noticed the lack of tabard over his polished breastplate. Behind them were sixty men, most mounted, and a mix of Argent Crusade and Scarlet Onslaught tabards with other unclaimed. Hanging at the inn door was a burly fellow with a stout club, easily the keep's bruiser, but by the stares of other citizens and some soldiers, it was clear the keep was only the voice of the common opinion.

No blame or judgment upon them. History had given no reason to trust the Scarlets, and even the Argent soldiers were becoming only a necessity of the past. The righteous fury in their hunts of the undead, the eagerness of such long bloodshed and wars, painted a dark mark over the nobility of paladins. He hoped one day to see them restored as holy soldiers and hands of the Light, both in action and in men's hearts.

"You got gold?" the keep asked finally, spitting tobacco juice onto the ground carelessly. Jayce's coiled tension was obvious.

"Indeed, friend. Lives hang in the balance, but we will pay honest prices for all our needs," Malthon told him.

"Not too sure what your idea of honest is, but go see Skinny Jec, over that hill and to the right. Big shop with the bleeding mare. He'll get you your horses." With a disregarding wave, the keep backed up, as if to let them pass.

"Blessings upon you." Malthon waved them forward, nodding thanks to the innkeeper.

As they began moving in the direction, the innkeeper spat again and mumbled a curse. Malthon paid him no mind until the man called out, "Hey you paladin. Where you heading in these damned lands? We hear the king is dead."

"Icecrown Glacier," he said, noticing the flinch from some of the listeners. "A few towns of men have been left without hope in the chaos. We hope to reach them in time, Light willing."

The keep scratched his ear, looking at the bruiser and raising his brows in gesture. The tough gave no reaction, but the innkeeper rounded back upon Malthon suddenly, so he raised his hand to halt the men again. With a final black spit, the keep said, "The trouble be mostly done around here, but Northrend is the land of creeping rime, as they say, and it takes good men to stand in it. The way its told, up north the war isn't rightfully over, and I respect those that try and make things better up there."

Still scratching his ear and not meeting Malthon's eye, he mumbled, "Don't go to Jec. He'll cheat you blind and give you swaybacks and glass ankles. Go down the hill, last shop at the north end of the wall. Hetzen's stable. Good man with fine horses and fine prices, can't miss it."

Malthon clasped his shoulder in passing. "The Light blesses those that do what they feel is right. Thank you, friend, and may your days be lived out safely."

As they strode away, Jayce looked back with a dark glare. "He intentionally tried to lead us to a cheat! Peasant ought to be hanged for trying to impede men on mission of this magnitude."

"Can you blame him?" Malthon asked calmly. "Listen to yourself. You treat those without the Light's blessings with contempt and a presence of violence if they don't bow like you're a king. Against such superiority, they can feel only fear and hate. What you all seem to forget is that we are mere servants of this world. We are the hands of the Light, to shine the way for the people, and we have been blessed with power to fight if our hands are forced."

"Those mild manners and slow actions are what let the Scourge roll over us in Lordaeron. Let the people walk all over you, and what's to stop the enemy from doing the same?" Jayce demanded. His face was thin and composed of sharp angles, though perhaps of handsome disposition, and presently his intense, dark eyes were fixed forward, glaring at the ground. Black hair was tied back in a ponytail.

"And without allies behind you, how far did you get?" With a smile, Malthon added, "Perhaps you'll understand in time, old friend. Provided you stand by your word not to act without my permission."

That had been his one term for the Scarlet crusaders' addition. Knowing their inclination for (usually) overzealous and fanatical action – and with Jayce's reluctant admission that the Scarlet Onslaught might have gone too far in their methods – Malthon had the score them and Jayce swear oaths to not act out without his approval, for as long as they rode with his paladins. Only because of their old friendship as Knights of the Silver Hand together did Jayce agree.

"I care more about my people than my pride, Lord Eyenhart. We are with you until the day your leadership hinders that goal." Jayce glanced at him as the hill leveled out, turning left down the road that touched the wall. "May that day never come."

"May that day never come." Malthon repeated. After a pause, he exclaimed, "Bah, 'Lord' makes me sound old. We were friends once; call me by name."

"You never did put much stock in military discipline, did you?" Jayce mentioned with a touch of reproach.

From behind, their one gryphon screeched obnoxiously, and both men glanced back. Just a proud bird being stubborn, they saw. To the red-armored paladin, Malthon admitted, "For soldiers I did, but not brothers. Come, let us get our horses and be off."

Land of the creeping rime, the keep had said. The phrase held a certain aptness that fascinated him.

X Underdog X

"Come on," Drekthac encouraged, mouth wide with his grin. "Just say it. He's a complete and utter bastard." He set down his mug, leaning forward intently.

Leyanna's blue cheeks were dark with her blush, and her eyes tried looking anywhere but his. When she wasn't chewing her lower lip, it was trembling with the effort. Finally, she started with a stutter, "He's... he is... H-he..." Drekthac's eyes gleamed with amusement. Finally, her eyes met his, and she gasped, "He's a complete and... and utter bastard!"

With a bellow of cheer and laugh, Drekthac smashed his mug against hers, then tipped it back to drink. The almost maroon faced nymph quickly hid her face behind her frothing cup and drank in a long serious of small sips. His eyebrows rose when she gently set an empty mug down, fizz running down her lips and chin.

"See, that's not so hard," he told her. A quick and guilty smile passed her lips as she looked back at him. He still beamed at getting a nymph to curse. "You can be damned sure that anyone who wants to rape you, or eat you – or even both! – is a downright bastard, and you should have no hesitations in calling him out over it, you got that?"

"If one of my sisters heard me, I'd die of shame," she exclaimed, but those pink eyes of hers hardened. "He does deserve it though! Smelly, mean-faced, ugly, flower-trampling, brute-handed..."

She struggled with a word to finish with, so Drekthac supplied, "Goat-fucker?"

"Goat-fucker!" she agreed with a shout. Drekthac roared again, slapping his knee as he laughed and drank. Realizing what she said, Leyanna's blush returned in a rush, and she covered her face with her hands. He still made out her smile and giggle.

Filling her mug again, Drekthac said, "I'm not so sure I should let you go free now. Your sisters would run you out of the glade for sure with that mouth."

Leyanna gave a small groan at the thought, quickly gathering her ale and drinking again. After she set her cup down, she pointed her finger at him accusingly, "You no good, foul-mouthed ogre-man! You are the reason we don't allow outsiders near our glades."

"Afraid we might let your true selves show?"

"No, that you might corrupt us to your brand of barbarism!" She pouted, then realizing she still had drink on her face, she wiped it with one hand and burped.

"Ah, but a good woman needs more than a pretty mouth," Drekthac argued, peering over at her with his dark eyes. "Has to have that passion, that fire, deep inside her, and if it never shows, she'll just get boring. It will be a lot more fun if you curse with me."

"But I thought you didn't want me to be your woman," she said, with a hint of question. A touch of rose remained with her cheeks from the alcohol now.

"Doesn't mean I won't see you off as a lean, mean, tongue-lashing machine when you go," he said and winked. "Plus, I have to deal with all your sass until then; might as well have it my kind of sass."

"Oh yes, that will be me. Leyanna the Stonehand, gruff and tough and ready to crack some bear skulls. Don't mess with her, she'll tan your hide with tongue or hoof!" She folded her arms before her and gave him a cute glare.

Drekthac laughed again and filled both of their mugs again from the casket. "If that were the case, I doubt I'd let you go at all. Nothing like a dainty whip of a nymph bruising her way through a town of vrykul. The Whelp and his fire-breathing woman: Leyanna Oakensteed."

Unable to help it, Leyanna giggled and drank again while rolling her eyes. When she set the mug down, she admitted, "I am glad, you know, Drek, that I got to meet you. If you weren't living here, I'd like to come back to see you again."

"Now that's the drink in you talking," Drekthac downplayed, waving her off.

Leyanna leaned forward intently. "I'm serious! You aren't at all as mean as you pretend. And that Gardjon deserved a good thwacking for what he did."

"So you'll help me stick his head outside my door in a couple days when I kill him?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. Leyanna hesitated, opening her mouth and closing it again, and he smiled softly. "Don't push yourself. I'm not downright evil, but we live in different worlds with different morals. At our very center, I love violence, and you are utterly repelled by it."

Leyanna frowned into her cup and pouted again. "A big meany, that's what you are. Even bears just need a good thump on the noggin to calm down. Only the mortals races enjoy being bullies."

"I might get you to curse, Leyanna, but I'll never try to have you favor bloodshed and combat like us. I never want you to understand the thrill of it."

The serious remark had her stare at him intently for a long moment. The alcohol had obvious influence over her, but surprisingly the nature girl was no light-weight. She still could think and act clearly. "Is that why you want me gone so soon?"

Drekthac stalled by drinking. After, he slammed his mug down and grinned broadly. "I want you gone, lass, because you're here eatin' my food, drinkin' my ale, takin' my space, and what do I get for it? Certainly not a tumble in the bed. Not some company for the cold nights. Sooner you're out, the sooner things go back to normal."

Leyanna immediately pouted.

They drank and spoke for hours more, deep into the night, before they were nearly falling out of their chairs. Drekthac managed to call it quits there. By that point, Leyanna was in her elven form from a prior dare and helplessly drunk. Had it been anyone else, he might have taken her to his bed and tried his chances, but even at his worst, he refused. Gently, he lifted the shape-shifted nymph and carried her towards the straw bed she slept in.

On the way, Leyanna mumbled, "You'rrrrre wrong, ya'no. Yoouu are so... wrong." Drekthac smiled at her slurs, but she continued, slowly trying to poke his chest as he carried her. "You care about... about muh. Care about muh and you're dun wanna show it. You're a _good_ man, but... but _fierce._ Like a dragon!"

"You are so wasted," Drekthac told her.

"I am _so_ wasted," she agreed, bursting into a giggle as he gingerly laid her down in her bed. His wound wasn't entirely healed, so he was sure to be careful. When he tried drawing away though, Leyanna quickly grasped his drake-skin vest in a tight grip, pulling him back. "Nuh you don't. Yooouuu... You said yuh wanted company at... at... at, um, night! So yoouu are staying _here... _Maybe no tumbling though, cause I might barf."

Drekthac looked down at her, seeing the nubile nymph so scandalously dressed and vulnerable. Just that loose, metal girdle covered her modesty, and essentially... her chastity. In this form, she was of prime interest to him. Shaking himself from the quick temptation, he told her, "I doubt I'd be able to hold myself back." He touched her cool blue forehead with his palm and muttered, "Sleep well, Leyanna."

She mumbled back, eyes already closed. Fighting the heavy drudge of alcohol with practiced ease, Drekthac turned away and made his way to his own bed.

XxX

"It is good to see you so well despite your prior wounds, Dragon. I hear you have blood match with Gardjon in two days hence," a mellow voice greeted from the side.

Drekthac didn't bother looking, knowing already who was there. A radiant val'kyr, of pale and transparent skin. She would be sporting white, feathered wings with the usual eyeless smooth helm, the small, bird-shaped breastplate, and bottoms that were outlawed from public view in all major Alliance cities.

"And I hear val'kyr don't take to casual acquaintance with individual warriors, Freydis," he returned, taking a long sip from his water cup. His head still pounded, but he refused to start a day with a heavy drink. Leyanna refused to rouse from where she had passed out, but he'd left three cups by her bed for when she woke.

The morning air was crisp and freezing, and the sun shown beautifully in the colorful sky of lights, with the snow reflecting all of it. There was a crunch as Freydis left the air and touched the ground with her feet, like the vrykul she once had been. "Perhaps it is your hubris over-assuming my returned presence."

He smiled, taking another refreshing drink, then finally glanced over at her. "Shall we go inside and let you rest your wings a bit, grab some food? Might not need it, but you still taste. It's been too long."

Her own lips quirked in betrayed amusement, but she declined with a curt shake of her head. "I'm afraid time presses, even for me. Are you well though? I see you are upright, which is good, but with Gardjon's insult, have you received trouble lately?"

"I'm fine. Eager for the match, in truth. Bastard has been a thorn since I got here. It will feel good to have it dislodged," he told her, leaning against the rail that separated his raised property from the short drop.

The val'kyr nodded. "I wish you good fortune and glory in the coming battle, and I expect to hear the Dragon's roar from our halls in Ymirheim. Also, I congratulate you for another great victory in the Underhalls tournament... You know, your name has been called for the next Valhalas. You would do well to enter this time and stamp your name across the vrykul histories, forever remembered for your greatness."

"Phaw!" Drekthac grumbled, turning away. "This again. I said I'd think about it, Arbiter."

"I merely want your greatness properly recognized. From me, Dragon, who assists in overseeing the tournament – know that if you fought there like you do in the Underhalls, you will win it all. The Gates of Ymirheim will open for you, and glory and women will be yours. And I will be there, in the Val'kyr Halls, waiting for you too." One large hand engulfed his shoulder. "You have lived no simple life, human who stands among vrykul, but you are not the type to be content with complacency."

After a brief squeeze, her hand moved away. Drekthac noticed his cup was empty and sighed, turning back to look at her face. "You've been a dear friend to me in this great experiment, Freydis. After the impression the vrykul left upon me with their honor and pride, I knew it might be possible for me to live here, but without your interventions and advice when I first stood as a slave fighter in the pits... I have a great debt to you, and I trust you."

"And I wish for you to stand as great as you should. Reconsider Valhalas, Baelin, and undergo a true challenge. I will sponsor you."

A brief silenced settled in following, until Drekthac asked, "Is Ymirheim truly all that they say? A city of champions, every man and woman a victor of Valhalas, where strength takes precedence to race, size, and history? Where once accepted inside its gates, they welcome you as a comrade and brother for all time?"

"With a bit more of a vrykul edge to it, but essentially, yes," she answered, smiling. Ymirheim, one of two cities that the invading small ones couldn't trump no matter how big or strong their armies were. Jotunheim was the other, but there had been no open war here like the one that had spilled oceans of blood outside Ymirheim's gates.

Finally, Drekthac decided to cave in for her, if just an inch. "Give me your word that you'll join us for my victory feast over Gardjon. I'll have an answer for you then."

The val'kyr spread her wings and gently lifted into the air again, signaling it was time for her to go, but she vowed, "I will be there, Dragon, but first you must win. Remember that Gardjon will fight with less honor than most."

"It's the Underhalls, darlin'," Drekthac reminded with a wink. "There is no honor there."

X Fallen X

He was mad. Definitely sun-touched, village simpleton, fresh from C'Thun's breast _mad._

One hundred qiraji Battleguards were stretched out before him, hovering in their huge assortment of colorful harem-cloth, tanned skin, bug parts, and narrow, bright teal eyes. Every single one of them faced him, with not a single layer of protection but a thin robe and Sekara beside him. The worst of it was the noise. A hundred wings beating furiously into a tremendous buzz that was amplified by the tight organic walls around them in the cavern. It was like being an ant in a nest of bees.

At least he didn't look pants-shitting scared. Barely, he clung to the warlock shadow trick and kept his emotions under control, and somehow the hood masking his face from view gave him some relief. He had the appearance of aloofness, which might make him seem a bit more credible than a simpering coward. He felt sure though that Sekara was shoving her memories of her time with him in all their heads anyways, so they'd know the truth of him despite it.

The psychic exchange went on for some time, Sin found. At first it was maddening, and then eventually it grew boring. He found a mushroom-shaped protrusion from the wall and sat, laying his staff across his legs. He wished he had some idea of what they were discussing or arguing about, though he felt sure if Sekara had linked with him during this, his mind would have been ripped to shreds by their way of communicating. He just hoped that the way some peeled out their scythe-blades and retracted them was an idle action, like scratching one's chin. Yes, that made sense.

He estimated it was an hour in when Sekara finally turned away and flew to him. He stood up with his staff in hand as she landed and gently brought her face close to his, building up the link until the final moment it solidified when her forehead touched his and his eyes closed. With the familiarity of experience, he better recognized the jumbled steps of its establishment, making it overall easier.

Her foreign thoughts floated up into his mind: _We are ready to follow Sin de Rath._

That was it. All the waiting, and she was ready to break the link with just one sentence. Sin's hand stopped her, and their foreheads remained touching. "That's it? You were discussing this for at least an hour."

_The all-mind has been established. The sisters are loyal to Sin de Rath. All sisters are your servants._ Strong pride colored her thoughts. How odd that he recognized it more like a facial expression than a tone of voice. Books upon books could be made involving study of the qiraji communication alone.

Again though was that word servant. It was a word only in his mind. From her, it was the collective wills in his hands. Their bodies, their actions, their everything was entrusted into him to control. The suggested possibilities trailed the thought like camp followers after armies. Everything they knew was his to know, his desires theirs to fulfill... like they were his own hands, and all of them together one entity. One entity – himself.

Sheesh, wasn't he just supposed to be leading an exodus of them from here? Or was he truly replacing C'Thun?

"And the old god?" he pursued. The all-mind, he assumed, was something like a consensus, a unanimous agreement between their minds. To take an hour to reach it, he assumed there must have been heavy debate centered around who to give themselves to.

_Master-queen-controller built us to greatness but also led us to ruin. Some thought master-qu... Some thought new old god might build us up again, but ruin is sure to follow new expansion from all-flesh-men. We believe Sin de Rath's... constant migration will be best for the sisters. If the old god comes for us, the all-mind will not be easily broken, and we will fight._

Light and Shadow, Sin knew he better be fully aware of what he had gotten himself into. He just inherited an army, one that the known world despised and a new old god would be interested in taking. A fully devoted army of warrior women, made by C'Thun, that trusted him to keep them safe.

And literally, he could do whatever he wanted with them. Become a traveling lord and his caravan of harem girls. A general on the march against the new old god, seeking to redeem the qiraji. A hermit who hides with them under a rock. The coward that abandons them in Un'Goro to fend for themselves. By Sekara's description, they would do anything he asked.

Sin needed a plan. He may be mad, but he would see things through, as he promised. To Sekara, he asked, "Can any of your sisters talk like Sartura?"

The quick thought of affirmation didn't need to be translated. Sekara lifted her head from his and turned to face the buzzing horde. Just before the link broke though, Sin felt a strange bubble of warmth – affection? satisfaction? joy? – sneak through her thoughts. There might be some insectoid hive-mind going on between them, but there was certainly some sense of individuality in there.

A few seconds later, three Battleguards broke from the mass and approached. They stopped before him and Sekara and hovered. He felt it was impossible to tell them apart with their faces so veiled, but their clothes were two blue and a white, to separate them from Sekara's pink. Inclining his chin towards them, he asked, "You can speak Common?"

"Yes, Sin de Rath," the white hissed. Her voice was quiet and reluctant, and it was clear she struggled with the words. "Ressact is the best at tongues, but Nzeeka and Soutine have the ability." Her nub gestured at the two others.

_Thank the Light,_ Sin thought to himself, relieved. He found her accent interesting though, detecting how she was converting the screeching voice Sekara demonstrated to intelligible words. The hiss, he felt, was inevitable to remain coherent. "Alright, Ressact, Seraka told me you've agreed to following me out of this den and through the desert."

"And to wherever Sin de Rath tells us to follow after," Ressact agreed.

He nodded. "I need information first, about the qiraji. This organic hive you live in now, is it something you can recreate elsewhere, to live safely despite weather?"

"No, Sin de Rath. The silithid are our builders. A queen could construct a hive too, but we are young, unable to reproduce. However, Sekara showed us your blanket to keep away the cold. I think... humans are like the qiraji, and your survival methods can keep us alive like it does your race," she answered. Her words grew bolder as she continued speaking.

That confirmed to him that Sekara had implanted her memories in their minds, at least. For the exodus, he felt he might not have been too far off with the caravan idea. Tents, blankets, and supplies would be needed to ensure their survival after hive-hopping through Silithus. With their wings though, he doubted each could carry much weight.

"What is your requirement on eating? Is it just soft foods and liquids, or must you feed on specific qiraji foodstuff?"

"We are natural omnivores, but Battleguards have no jaws or teeth to tear food."

Sin smiled slightly. Now he was able to get somewhere, and without the harsh headache Sekara would force upon him. "So food, drink, and shelter are standard and easy. And if Sekara is example, it all comes out the same way too. How do you take injury though? Can a wing regrow if its ripped off?"

"Yes, around three weeks to regrow a wing to functional levels. If we lose one, we can fly with only three while we wait, but with two wings we can only flutter briefly, like long hops. We shed and regrow carapace too." For the last, she tapped the black marks visible on her legs. "The silithid spun our clothes to look like humans, but we can take them off, if you prefer."

"Keep them on," Sin told her, biting his cheek as they flushed. He couldn't deny his curiosity for them though. "Perhaps if we have time later, I'll tell you about the human's ideas of modesty. For now, what about the helmets and breastplate, and those pincers on your shoulders?"

"Armor," she said simply, pulling it off her head between the nubs for example. Like he had seen with Sekara, black hair was tucked underneath, and she put the helmet back on. The pincers flexed forward and back next. "These are vestigial limbs, from before our Change by our former master. They are attached very weakly and fall off without much pain. They do not regrow."

"Do any of you know magic? Healing spells?" he asked.

After a moment of silence, Ressact said, "We do not. We fight with our arms and regrow if we are hurt. That is the extent of our ability."

Sin had to make sure his questions remained on topic, though he was bursting with curiosity. Did they love and hate? What do qiraji do with spare time? Were there relationships or only the Family? Morality? Hobbies? Attraction? Ambition? Just how human were they? But none of it mattered to their survival, so he abstained.

He followed with: "You are independent of the silithid, correct? We don't need to take any along with us, right?"

"We have adapted with them, but we are independent."

"And is there anything we need to take then? Something besides food and water that I don't know about?" Ressact shook her head like Sekara would. "And you are all ready to leave right now?"

"Any time Sin de Rath asks, we are ready," she told him in that soft voice.

"Good." He paused then pensively, and faced the entrance to their cavern. "But first we are going to need some supplies, maybe some carrying power. I've got a gamble in my mind, but I know where we can find both."

Out in the desert, there were the natural beasts, the silithid hives, the night elf watchers, and... the cultists, eternally trapped here by the night elves. Many would have died at this point, years since the defeat of their armies and master, but that would leave tents, bedrolls, and other necessities in abundance. The remaining cultists too would be wearied yet desert hardened, strong and tough as leather, and most of all, they would be desperate to leave.

The elves would never let the qiraji Battleguards leave, and a troop of this size would be near impossible to pass unnoticed. But with the right strategy and man-power, and a little help from dark hands... Abruptly, he remembered Sekara mentioning that the old god had called upon the qiraji to rally to him. The brothers – the qiraji Gladiators – would eventually make their own break for freedom, without the protection of the Scarab Wall to hold them in. Would they risk taking the remaining queen too, or would the old god have that covered?

Turning to face the buzzing horde again, Sin de Rath smiled. Perhaps being sun-touched came with a load of fun. "Alright, we've got a lot of work to do, ladies. I'm going to need eyes, hands, and mouths. I'm going to need you with me, Ressact, but you two, do whatever mind-trick you can to start teaching some of the others to speak Common. If any of you can manage stealth, I want you to start observing the brothers. Get a silithid to spin you clothes that will help you blend in.

"Sekara, you are with me too. We are going out to the cultists camps to recruit some help. No one meets an all-flesh-man without me present, you got that? The rest of you, we're clearing this place out and moving to the next hive, but first we need to blind some watchers. For now, gather whatever food and drink you can still fly with."

Sin snapped his fingers and pointed at Ressact, "Quick question, how close do you need to be to speak telepathically with a sister?"

"The eyes are the windows," she said, and Sin's lips pursed with thought.

"Messengers then," he concluded. "I want the five fastest girls you have with us. Prepare yourselves, cause I doubt the opening to leave will last very long. When the messenger comes, you leave immediately – and fly high, girls, where the brothers can't touch you. Now let's move."

XxX

"Stand your guard, men!" the leading rider bellowed. He threw himself from his snow white tiger mount and drew his doubled ended glaive, twirling it into a stance. His mount bared its fangs and crouched beside him, also ready to fight, while the five other companion night elves followed suit and stood ready with their weapons poised towards Sin.

Outriders of the Cenarion Circle, the Watchers of the qiraji following the War of the Shifting Sands. Sin had fought with them when the gates of Ahn'Qiraj reopened, and he knew that the night elves were warriors with centuries of combat experience. It showed in their ability, and no matter Sin's own strength, he knew better than to take them lightly. Even if he could win out, it would not be with the lives of all seven Battleguards behind him.

However, Sin wouldn't be cowed by their abrupt appearance. This was danger that he accepted with his decision over Sekara's plight. Well, it was time to live up to his new found title anyways. "Now you see here," he started, indigent. "These robes are purple. Warlock purple, not the Twilight maroon." The mad title, that was.

"You stand with the qiraji, human – those that we are oath-bound to keep contained within these very gates," the wary leader returned. His smooth, elven voice was laced with hard steel.

"Fine job you've done with that, considering that silithid hives cover half of the land in this forsaken desert." _Alright, Sin, calm the cheek a bit. Even an elf's patience can run thin. Be rational. Hah!_ "Believe me, I know exactly how this looks to you, but hear me out first. I was one of those that went down the ruins with you again C'Thun. I'm the last person who wants a repeat occurrence."

"Speak then, warlock, but know we will not turn from our oaths on mere words. They will not pass into the desert." The man had a level head on his broad shoulders, at least.

Hoping it would not later return to bite him in the ass, Sin said, "The qiraji have been split by civil war. The brothers- ah, that is, what we call the Gladiators, they want to continue expanding outward, and the Battleguards simply want to be done with it and live in peace. So the Gladiators started killing the Battleguards hoping to bully them into it, and since they are stronger, the Battleguards have to choose between being wiped out or falling in line.

"But that's all insignificant now. Last night, a _new_ old god made an appearance, and he's calling in everything that once served its predecessors. Very soon, you Watchers are going to have a large exodus of every remaining Gladiator and probably silithid storm out these gates in their mad rush to reach this new god."

"Elune preserve us," a female Outrider gasped, while the leader's lips thinned. He said, "Even if what you say is true, warlock, you have not explained your hand in the events, nor why you lead these Battleguards."

"Isn't it obvious?" Sin demanded. "We are getting the hell out of dodge. The Battleguards asked for my help with the Gladiators, and now with this old god, they know it will just demand they try to war again – which is what they are trying to get away from. So I've got the Gladiators flushing us out, you Watchers trying to keep us in, an old god trying to lay claim on them, and a whole race of insect girls that I am only barely understanding that expect me to take them safely from C'Thun's bloody tomb to wherever the hell we end up."

Sin slammed the butt of his staff into the sand, marked with a cold fury, and a thrum of power rippled outward. The shadow-laced wind had the night elves brace themselves against it, as a show of power. "Now you listen here, friends. You can fight us here, you can try to stop us as you are oath-bound to do, but consider carefully that if you don't win here, my message of this old god is lost, and the warning will not be passed where the watchers can sufficiently prepare for the coming storm of Gladiators. Then we get round two of this damn war, on top of whatever else that old god has prepared for us.

"But no matter what your choice is here, we are leaving. Me and every one of my Battleguards are leaving here alive, even if it means carefully incapacitating you so that the message can still be received and we don't damn the world in a stupid "oath-bound" scuffle!"

"You are mad," the man accused. His glaive trembled in his hands, whole body tight with tension.

Sin barked a laugh. "You are damned right I am. Sin de Rath the Mad. Tell your superior who sent this message, and remind him that if there is a new old god, the first to know will be the spawn of old gods. If he listens to reason, tell him that every blade will be needed in the far north, when the Gladiators are dealt with."

While the leader stared at him with indecision, another Outrider asked with a troubled voice, "Where in the north might this old god be?"

Sin looked to Ressact. After a moment, the white-garbed Battleguard muttered, "Far north."

He looked back to the Outriders. "We don't know. Now, will you go with my message, or will you try to stop us from leaving?"

Still straining for an answer, the leader demanded, "Give me one reason why we should trust you, warlock. Proof that you aren't just trying to carry the qiraji out so they can start anew somewhere else and start a whole new war again."

"I'll give you nothing, Outrider, for that's all I have to offer. My neck still hackles with apprehension and suspicion that at any moment these Battleguards may turn on me and cut me to ribbons. However, I didn't promise them a nest; I promised them safety, and by the Light and Shadow, I am going to manage it."

With a growl, the leader thrust his glaive into the sand, and he glared darkly. "Sin de Rath the Mad, we will carry your message, but don't think we will forget our duties in fear. Your every movement and action will not pass unnoticed or unscrutinized. Keep that in mind as you try and play puppeteer of the qiraji, and if you prove the puppet, then we will sever the head from the beast – and the body will follow. Riders, mount up!"

Sin watched as the Outriders mounted and left, glancing back as they went. He exhaled with a sudden relief, leaning against his staff. A second later, he turned to those he had taken as messenger. "That was faster than expected. Tell the sisters to move immediately to Hive Regal, in the east. Fly high, stop for no one, and return to me immediately when you have settled in for the night."

One of the messengers turned and flew back into Ahn'Qiraj.

X Beacon X

In the shadow of the titan's broken bridge, Malthon peered from the final frozen ridge into the deep expanse of gold. Crystalsong Forest was a valley, he knew from the maps, yet the far mountains weren't visible from that vantage point. His attention turned to the east, where the gold became a corrupted mass of violets and pink. Some matter of arcane that had ruined the land.

The better part of two hundred mounted paladins fanned out behind him and Jayce. Since the day they passed through Wintergarde, they had found dozens of scattered Scarlet Onslaughts camps as they continued north. The men squatted at their fires with no purpose or idea of where to go. Knowing they needed speed, Malthon accepted any that had an able horse, while commanding the rest to head south and reoccupy New Hearthglen. A dear friend of Malthon's left to oversee them, knowing the guidance would be needed.

Two hundred mounted knights, each one in command of the holy Light. He headed a very potent force now, Malthon recognized, and he was glad for the stout brothers and sisters for this journey. To Jayce, he said, "This is the edge of the safe world. Beyond here lies the mysteries of Crystalsong and the land of creeping rime. We will need to constantly be on our guard."

"And you will be our light through that creeping rime," Jayce acknowledged, grasping the reigns of his steed with tense hands. He knew what lied before them, standing on the cusp before the great forest. "I think even the men realize that the Light is different within you. You stand as a beacon, even among us."

They continued to stare out while the sun finished rising above their heads. Malthon said, "I'm thinking illusions. We'll see things that aren't there – or maybe even are – that will try to lead us astray, into traps and madness. We will need mental fortitude to keep our vision tunneled and focus singular, away from elven mysticism."

Jayce took a drink from a hip flask, frowning pensively. He drank water, always water. "What about rangers or forest wardens? That magic yonder unsettles me, and maybe it unsettled some of the dead with it."

With a thoughtful hum, Malthon pointed west, to the frozen wall they were to descend into the valley. "We could try to skirt the forest, maybe avoid everything."

"If I remember the map correctly, there's a ruined elf town a few leagues down also pressed to the cliff wall. That's the last place I'd want to brave in this land."

Malthon sighed and closed his eyes, muttering a quick prayer to the Light. When his blue eyes opened again, he pointed north, directly into the heart of the forest. "We'll push through all the way to the river, then cut west along it and follow it all the way to the Scourge's dam. Maybe five days if we push our horses to reach the end, twice that if we employ any sense of caution."

"Five days including running through the night and leaving anyone injured behind. We'll have half our men by the end, from horse accidents alone," Jayce snorted. He liked the idea of remaining longer in there no more than Malthon himself did.

"Ten days," Malthon concluded with a troubled voice.

Jayce glanced back at their troops, then faced Malthon with his horse. "We could turn back, you know. Cut through Dragonblight into Borean Tundra, then head north through the jungles of Sholazar Basin. It will take maybe a month longer, but we can avoid the worst of Crystalsong and Icecrown both and reach the harbor from the south."

"There is more than just our brothers at Onslaught Harbor to consider for this journey. We'll continue here. Paladins do not shirk from danger, especially when there are lives on the line."

Jayce's smile was grim as he nodded, and he lifted his reigns in readiness. "Then lead us, Sir Malthon Eyenhart."

Malthon raised his hand for everyone behind them to see and waved it forward. He flicked his own horse's reigns, the charger named Crown, and started down the slope into Crystalsong Forest. Jayce, on Icelance, remained with him.

XxX

"High General!" the runner shouted, though quietly. No one dared to attract outside attention. He stopped before Malthon and saluted. "High General, an urgent message from the nightwatch. Your presence is demanded at the south end, immediately if you're able, milord."

"I'll be there, lad," Malthon nodded to him, though why the paladin acted like a boy eluded him. Malthon was his brother as surely as another. "And I'm not your High General."

The man blushed and glanced downward, but with another salute, he turned to head south, back to his part of their scrawling camp. Malthon flicked the last of the water from his hands and grabbed a towel beside the basin he had erected. After wiping his face, he grabbed his mace and shield, electing to remain shirtless, and departed from his tent in the direction the paladin had wandered towards.

He threw the strap of his sheath over his shoulder and slid the mace behind him, resting against the skin of his back. As he was fixing the straps of his shield, he noticed the progressing waves of salutes from his men when he passed. Refraining from smiling in either amusement or exasperation, he merely nodded back to them. They might want him as their High General, but he wouldn't act the part. He walked shirtless among them the same he always would with his brothers.

The Crystalsong air was musky and scented like a Lordaeron fall. He could see the twinkle of stars peaking through the branches of the trees that surrounded their camp, while the gurgle of the great river was drowned out by the murmur of the camp. Looking out from their fire-lit camp, he could see motes of mystic light flitting among the trees, the occasional burst of arcane in the far distance that outlined the trees between. No one trusted themselves as safe here.

When he reached the southern end of the camp, he found the group of nightwatchers pointing out at something in the forest and made his way to them. They spooked at the sound of his boots when they noticed, but grew visibly relieved when they noticed who it was. Nodding to them, Malthon asked, "What's this about, men?"

A man with close cropped hair and an equally short beard puffed out a breath. "I know the deceptions of this forest, milord, and I know not to take anything we see to the heart, but there be something following us, milord. A woman, clothed in sheer moonlight. She's been taunting us and inviting us out, all playful and seductive. Had this been a regular army, I feel we might have needed to haul back some hotblooded boys from going out to her."

"A ghost of a very distance past, is my guess," Malthon said, staring out into the blackness. Nothing moved apart from the motes of light. "Until she starts sending arrows that can pierce flesh, you've nothing to worry about."

"Of course, milord," the man said, bowing his head. With a sheepish smile, he added, "It's just, I've never respectfully turned down banter with a woman, and she be a finer tease than a shy farmer's daughter. I suppose I'm thankful she only speaks the singing elven tongue and not Common."

Clasping the man's shoulder, Malthon said, "Just be smart about it. If she ends up visiting your tent tonight, I can assure you she's not there for a tumble."

"I'd never," the man declared softly. "I enjoy the banter and exchange of words. I would never give my body outside a rightful marriage."

With a smile, Malthon nodded and released his shoulder. With another caution and a parting word, he turned to leave them.

"_Malthon."_

Malthon stopped as the eerie, feminine hiss floated against his back. Turning his head, he saw the men had wide eyes, and they turned to look out into the forest again. _"Malthon... Eyenhart."_ A throaty chuckle followed the voice, coming from an indiscernible direction.

"That'll give a man some spooks," one of the paladins mentioned with a sigh. They all had their hands on their weapons, tension obvious.

A second watchman shook his head. "Nonsense. She likely just heard the name when we told the messenger to send him."

Malthon snorted though, throwing his hand up and casually continuing his way back to his tent. "Don't let the forest get inside your head, men. And watch your tongues hereon." He didn't let them know his own suspicions. _If she recognized the name given to the messenger, she knows they were asking after their superior. And now she knows what I look like._

X Ranger X

"Ah, but if it isn't some tiny snacks, scurrying about for Dralach'ah to feast upon."

The pit lord was massive and armored, slowly turning its double-ended weapon about like a windmill. It's flaming eyes were lit with pleasure, the toothy mouth spread into a smug smile. They could see it was a maw full of fangs when it spoke. It showed no fear for the few hundred elves though, eying them like the morsels of meat it boasted them as.

Still turning about its weapon, Dralach'ah continued with his confident drawl: "I wonder how many of you will die before you can pierce my armor, puny elves, and how many before you can kill me... If you can kill me at all."

The Bloodwarders and rangers drew their weapons, standing tense at the forefront of the last of their people. They were not ready for such a fight, did not have the skill to see it in their favor, but they were the last line of defense for them. The Sunfury remnants, since their time in the Ruuan Weald, had gained hope and life, and now faced this pit lord with eyes of fear and defiance.

But then Thomas dropped his cloak of shadows standing between Dralach'ah and the blood elves, a dangerously flat expression on his face. A bow and quiver were over his shoulder, while his usual daggers were sheathed at his side. His armor was black leather, snug and soundless, and cloaked with orange clothes to help blend with the terrain around them.

Unslinging his bow from his shoulder, Thomas announced, "Not a single drop of elven blood will touch the soil this day, Dralach'ah, but it will feast on yours." His hand found an arrow and fitted it to the string, then drew back with casual aim.

Dralach'ah rumbled a deep, baritone laugh. "And one human expects to challenge Dralach'ah? Come then. I will show you your place, for the eyes of all to see before my blade feasts upon them."

Thomas smiled, though it was a tight, dangerous expression too. "Perhaps you are relying on your doomguards to aid you if your fight goes dire. A full score of them, to trap and butcher me and my elves while we are unaware. Well, they are already dead."

"What- ARGHH!" Thomas loosed his arrow the instant the demon opened his mouth, right into one of the flaming eyes. Dripping glowing, fel-green ichor and corrupted blood, the pit lord ripped out the arrow and bellowed, glaring at where Thomas was running forward.

Thomas rolled under the first swipe of Dralach'ah's polearm, then sidestepped from the overhead blow that smashed into the ground. A great crack split the dirt and sent debris flying around it, along with spilling dust to either side from the wind of the blow. It was in one such dust cloud that Thomas disappeared. Dralach'ah growled and slashed through the dust, dissipating it, yet his weapon touched nothing – and the cloud vanished to show no one there.

Whirling around on clumsy feet with suspicion, Dralach'ah found himself too late. Thomas was already jumping onto his back, then running up the spined hump to the armored torso. The polearm slid back in a precise blow to impale Thomas off its back. Thomas barely caught it in a parry with his dagger and was thrown off by the force. Dralach'ah grunted triumphantly and lifted his frontal feet up for a heavy blow that would split the human in half while he was still dazed on the ground.

As the weapon descended though, Dralach'ah saw Thomas' body vanish in a puff of shadows just before he cleaved the ground. Immediately, he felt feet stomping back up his back, and this time he was unable to send him off before Thomas had fixed himself onto the demon's shoulders, holding on by a horn. The dagger plunged into the remaining eye, to the furious roar of Dralach'ah.

"You think I need _eyes_ to kill you, human! I'll peel the skin from your body before I am through!" Dralach'ah taunted as he thrashed about, trying to buck off he rogue. The flat of his weapon came up to swat Thomas off, but he managed to climb away, keeping atop. The pit lord couldn't be goaded into bashing his own head, Thomas found.

"You're weak," Thomas told him moments before hooking the end of his dagger under Dralach'ah's jaw and ramming it upwards, through the soft spot and into the skull.

"And you are made of flesh, puny rat!" Dralach'ah gurgled around the dagger. Abruptly, the pit lord's whole body engulfed in green flames in a demonic immolation aura, and Thomas found himself in the heart of it.

Thomas escaped though, landing before the hundreds of watching elves in the duel. All could see his body cloaked in purple shadows, like a silhouette, yet it was nothing like the shadowed stealth he often demonstrated. With a raspy grunt, the pit lord waved his weapon forward and sent a tremendous, flaming meteorite from the sky to crash against him. The spell passed through him like he was a living shadow, though the ground it touched burned with unnatural flames and corruption.

Thomas strode forward, unharmed, leading the eyeless demon to cringe and step back. Dralach'ah demanded, "What are you?"

"The Shadow." He vanished in another plume of black smoke.

The immolated demon roared as Thomas reappeared on its back, already clutching onto a flaming spike, and the dagger drove into its neck. Thomas ripped it out and did it again, and again, while Dralach'ah shook and roared, too panicked to take the rogue from his back. Thomas felt his hold over the Cloak of Shadows fall and the flames lick his skin again, but he was relentless. He continued stabbing, then tried sawing off the head in a brutal decapitation.

With a roar of might, Thomas pulled at the head while the now silent Dralach'ah began to pitch to the side, falling limp. With a sickening tear, the head came off, and Thomas landed on his feet with it in his left hand and dagger in the right. The head alone was near the size of his torso. Seared and singed where his skin showed, Thomas let the elves bear witness to his triumph, then threw the head aside to the smoldering corpse.

"...Damn," one male Bloodwarder muttered, impressed, while a female exclaimed, "By the Sunwell!"

Paying them no mind, Thomas gestured west. "Let's go. We will reach the next forest by nightfall."

XxX

There was a dozen of them this time, most already in the trees with him. Thomas felt no need to say anything, perched north of their camp to look for any Horde scouts or wanderers that jeopardize his elves. He himself was laid out in the branches of one great tree and knew the closest blood elf ranger to be crouched one tree over at the same level, staring at him.

There was near total silence as they moved, though by now they knew to expect his awareness. Looking over, he found the silver haired woman that had first stripped her Bloodwarder armor and declared herself ranger. At the eye contact, she asked, "How fare your wounds?"

"Superficial annoyances," he told her, grudgingly. He lightly debated insisting upon his no question policy. "Why have you all left the festivities? This will be the last forest for weeks, until we reach Azeroth once again."

"They celebrate your name down there," one man piped in, reclined on a low branch with his bow resting unstrung over his knees. "The Shadow. Thomas the Swiftblade. There were some mentions of Deliverer as well."

When Thomas snorted dismissively, an upbeat girl from a tree on his right insisted, "We thought to keep you company." Some blond with a ponytail, likely far older than her voice suggested. She, like the rest, carried her bow with her – strung and hooked over her shoulder.

If he remembered correctly, one ranger was missing from the complete thirteen – whether she was back at camp or too hidden from his senses, he had no way of knowing. He recalled the separation he wanted to keep from them, keeping this a simple escort and then leave them at its end. He felt the efforts decay though, recalling the loneliness of his insisted solitude.

Solitude he preferred in forests, yet the forests were too far and in between. These broken, unnatural lands didn't offer the same company, no matter where he seemed to go. He figured these rangers around him would understand that feeling the best. He didn't continue the conversation though.

Far below, one man muttered in Thalassian, _"We're probably bothering the fuck out of him. Might be some kind of social outcast."_

Another huffed a laugh and returned, _"He'd still kick your ass, Loraeoth. In a fight or the Game of Foxes."_

The elven voices tinkled like music to Thomas' ears. It brought fond memories back to him, especially in the serenity of the forest. One woman though, low with the other two in a sort of trio, piped, _"Let's play. Like the Shadow said, this is the last forest, and I haven't played since before... Prince Kael'thas and the Scourge."_

"There's better ways to have fun, Sarrine," the blond male to Thomas' left said, then demanded softly, _"And speak Common here. It's impolite."_

"Like you are one to preach formalities with suggestions like that!" Sarrine returned, laughing. _"It's our safe way of communicating anyways. _Ahem, who else is with us?"

"Leave us if you must, but do not drag attention from the Horde." The redhead this time, who had confronted him at the Ruuan Weald.

Half of the blood elves slipped down from their trees to the forest floor, some of them nearly bubbling with excitement. The redhead and the silver haired girls remained in place, though the blond man at the low branch dropped down with them. As they moved, the redhead, resting with her back to a tree's trunk at a similar height, asked, "How did you know about those doomguards today?"

"I saw Dralach'ah before he saw us," Thomas mentioned absently as he watched the elves began to consolidate at the floor below his tree and string their bows. He wondered at the game being played with so many, with these rangers. Already sparked with nostalgia, a debate began in his mind.

Seeing his attention, the silver haired woman explained, "It is the Game of Foxes they are about to begin. I am still unsure if you know the game or not, but the purpose is to use every bit of skill you posses to hide and move about the forest and find the others without being found yourself. Touch them without knowing you are there and they have lost."

Thomas remembered the blood pumping thrill, the mental strain and paranoia, the quick runs from shadows and the hunting of fox trails. The laughter as he rolled over the grass with his friend in a brawl when he had lost. The struggle in his mind ended very quickly, and he felt the last bridges of his separation burning as he slid down from his own branch – drawing the attention of every eye as he did.

Landing at the floor among the other seven elves, he said in Thalassian, _"I will play too."_

X Unknown X

"Silence, silence!" King Varian roared over the clamor of his attendants and council. When their eyes were upon him once again, he commanded slowly, "Play the message again, mage."

The grizzled man nodded to his king, placing the bowl in the center of the chamber once again. His hand glowed white with magic, and then the image rose from the bowl of the dwarven scryer that had sent the alarm.

"_Requestin' immediate aid from Stormwind! The Council of Three Hammers has fallen! Some assassin, somethin' unnaturally powerful to take down all three of them an' the guards. Things are in a right panic down here. Best word we have is only one attacker, someone pirouettin' about in a grey cloak. Be on the lookout if it comes yer way, an' keep your best at hand at the present."_

The dwarf mage hesitated, looking beyond the sight of their scry. They could see the haunted cast of his eyes, the furrows still etched in his brow, and then he shook his head, looking back to them. _"Tensions are still holdin' between us and the Dark Iron, just barely. We all lost here... but we haven't any unity, and there's fear that folk'll be eruptin' into a riot soon, if any tension comes hot. Our marshals and commanders are policing the city as best they can, but we request that King Varian steward for us until a new council can be elected."_

Another pause. _"An' from me, Rohan Blackforge, I wan' tah add somet'in'. There's been no word from High Tinker Mekkatorque yet, but my scrying has shone the gnomes in a panic. I fear... I fear this is more than an attack on the dwarves, or on the Council. Something dire seems in motion. I can't rightfully say this in any sureness, but your king might be next. Protect him, friends. Protect him, or else we'll have no one to look to on this side of the world."_

XxX

Someone else should have been doing this work, but she had been the closest agent. Amber Kearnen rounded the thick oak tree and ducked under the protruding root, slamming down her rifle Claire as quietly as she could. Her right eye's optic-enhancer scanned the area, finding nothing on zoom or heat sense.

A sharpshooter in a game of Cat and Cat with what might be the assassin of the Council of Three Hammers?

Amber lifted her heavy weapon and threw it behind her again, latching it to the hook, then sprinted forward under stealth. She had no reason to question her orders, and every reason to see the enemy's head splattered over the grass.

Between steps, she heard the crack of a tree branch to the right, and she looked over, eyes wide. She saw nothing, and a click of her optic showed no heat either. To her left she looked, about to continue running, yet she froze when she noticed faint heat on the ground, in clear steps. She crawled over, still carefully wrapped in the shadows, and inspected the tracks, following them forward.

For a hundred yards she ran. Occasionally the tracks disappeared, but with the direction clear, it was quick work to find new sets, and the heat was growing warmer and fresher.

Amber rounded the tree where the the tracks turn west, towards the city, seeing both heat at the center and the peel of grass and dirt where the heel had turned – it must have been moving quick – and then she dropped to a knee and threw down her rifle from her back to her hands.

"There you are, you slimy bastard," she whispered as she saw a cloaked figure loping through the woods alongside the road. Her optic locked onto it, giving both thermal and zoomed vision of her target. It was another hundred yards from her, and gaining every second.

Distant meant nothing once she knew her target. Sucking in a breath and holding it tight, she braced her weapon, lined the sight, and found the target's head in her aim. Without hesitating, the instant she had all adjustments corrected, she squeezed the trigger.

The bullet would split its head like a watermelon before the loud crack of the gun reached the enemy. Amber watched with grim satisfaction as a bullet-sized tear opened in the back of the grey cloak, and blood spurted forward in effect. Her elation fell, however, when she noticed that the creature was not downed. Nor did it stop.

Opening her normal left eye, Amber noticed almost too late the black magic heading her way. She rolled to the side, just as the cloud splashed down at her position, and she watched the ground hiss away as if from acid. Gritting her teeth, she looked down the path again, only to find her target missing.

_Shit! Amber, you fool!_

She wrapped the shadows around her again, tight as she could, then touched the button on her bracelet as she moved away. "This is Agent Kearnen. The enemy has been spotted in Elwynn Forest. Bastard is tough – took a shot from Claire like she tossed a pebble. Prepare for its arrival, if I can't stop it here."

Amber continued watching for the enemy, scanning all directions. After a few seconds, a smooth voice whispered through her earpiece, "Amber, this is Rell. We are all clear on this end. It will be alright to hang back and follow it to the city. We'll stop it at the gates."

Scowling, Amber stopped at a tree, crouching down to take watch. _Can't follow it if I don't have sight of it!_ she thought to herself, angry for losing track of it in the first place. Seeing no signs of heat save for a single deer, and no tracks, she stood to keep on – only to find herself shoved back, slamming into the tree.

She gasped out her breath at the impact. Amber tried to push forward and move to face her attacked, but she found herself pinned. Looking to her chest, where she had been struck, she groaned at the sight of a thick, oily tendril piercing her armor. She had been impaled to the tree.

Following the path of the limb, Amber saw the cloaked figure creeping from around the tree, having been behind it. She squinted at its face, trying to identify the enemy, but after a few disconnected seconds, her eyes widened in shock. Against the pain, she roared and lifted her rifle, pulling the trigger. Incorrectly braced, Claire shattered her shoulder and jumped out of her hands, yet the deep-impacting slug sent the creature reeling backwards, hissing violently, and the limb impaling her slid out.

Amber noticed with sick fascination that rather than something narrow-pointed like a tentacle, it was a hand that had stuck her. Something was wrong with the joints of the arm though, letting it squirm about freely without bone structure, and the nails and fingers must have been like thorium to have so easily passed her body armor and ribcage.

It had already seen her through stealth, and between the hole in her chest and her disabled arm, Amber knew she didn't have a chance of getting out alive. Even point-blank, the creature shrugged off the bullet and healed itself with a spiraling swell of black magic.

She touched the button on the bracelet again, gasping as best she could, "Got ourselves... a real freakshow, Rell. Give it... hell for me... It looks like... some kind of... Er-ah!"

"Amber!" Rell Nightwind shouted over the communication. "Amber, what's going on? Are you hurt? ...Amber! Light, no! AMBER!"

XxX

"Look, you know that I have often spoken for the orcs since the events on Mount Hyjul, years ago. However, this new warchief... Garrosh, leads them not with the honor that Thrall had before. Under Garrosh's Horde, we cannot rule out the possibility of one of his assassins, maybe partaking the blood of another great demon," Lord Dasen McAnole argued, following the second viewing of the message.

"I agree with Lord Dasen," one of the lady's concurred. "Given the silence of our Darnassian allies, we can only assume the worst. Clearly, something is targeting Alliance leadership, and the Horde must remain a prime suspect. Regardless of the hands behind the attack, however, their intentions are clear: Conquest. Our first action should be rallying our armies as we begin our counter-intelligence and aid our dwarven allies."

"What?" Varian demanded. "Our soldiers still bleed from wounds inflicted in Northrend against the Lich King! They have not had a day of rest since their coming home, and our officials still struggle to finish administering their hard earned pay. You would have me rally them to arms yet again over a threat we don't know exists yet?"

One of the senior lords present, a survivor from the razing of Stormwind, nodded. "I agree with the King's sentiments. We should begin with the operations of SI:7 and keep our commanders and generals prepared for war, but for the love of the Light, let the men rest until we are sure this threat calls for a total rally of our armies. Westfall only now begins to recover from the toll of the war up north. The 7th Legion is more than adequate for now."

"Halt, in the name of the King!" a voice cried near the entrance of the keep. Varian silenced the council when he noticed the guards near the entree to the throne room begin to move.

"Protect the King!" one of them shouted, while his partner cried rally, "To arms! Intruders in the Keep!"

The nobles immediately broke into panic and rage. The veterans, including a lady sorceress and a former knight-paladin, drew arms, starting for the long hall. Varian was inclined to agree. He told the assembly, "Guardsman, escort my son and the nobles out through the secret passageway. We will address this... intruder."

The typical "Yes, milord," was overcome by Dasen's deep outcry of, "My King! None here doubt your prowess in battle, but consider our position at the present! If the golden lion falls here, who do the people of the Alliance look to? Leave with us!"

King Varian paced over to the entree, while Anduin Wrynn and Lord Dasen lingered behind despite the urging of the guardsman. The King saw the gathered shapes of his finest soldiers facing off against a single figure. In brief moments, that one figure slew man after man in fluid motions, unhalting in his progression towards the throne room. Clearly, that was no ordinary assassin. His fists balled, anger sparking.

Varian inhaled deeply, then turned away from the spectacle and marched over to his son. Anduin was a boy no longer. "Father," the blond started, hesitant, but Varian kneeled and took his hand in his gauntlet.

"My son, there is nothing I would not do to get back those years my captivity stripped of me from spending time with you. In my absence, however, you have grown into a fine man, and I see both courage and wisdom still growing fast within your heart. I will not run from this battle. Should I fall here, the crown and responsibility of Stormwind, her people, and all of the Alliance falls to you. Now go, do not falter. We will buy you time if we cannot win out."

Anduin hesitated, tightened his hold over his father's hand one last time and nodded. Lord Dasen said nothing at the proceeds, merely saluted the King and left with Anduin, intent on watching over the prince. Varian watched the guardsman close the passageway's entrance behind him, then drew his sword Shalamayne and rounded upon the entree hall.

The veteran lords moved with him as a private escort, as did the final defense of royal guards. The wolf inside Varian began to grow restless, hungry, and he knew he was once again assuming the name Lo'Gosh. "For Stormwind!" he snarled, and those with him hollered in turn:

"For Stormwind!"

X Chapter End X


	3. Chapter 1: Champion of the Underhalls

The First Stage: Assembly

* * *

Chapter 1

_Champion of the Underhalls_

* * *

X Underdog X

It seemed like half of Jotunheim crammed into the Underhalls for this. The commotion was outrageous, shaking the halls and filling the air with warm musk from the sea of bodies. The Whelp was going to kill Gardjon. The Whelp finally overstepped his limits and would die this night. The outcome was hotly debated by all tongues, and the excitement showed on every face, in every action – from the large-scale fist brawls to wild orgies with the chained whores and female spectators both. Even the vargul filled the overlooks.

Freydis was there in the crowd, grounded and standing beside Leyanna. She would keep the nymph safe while Drekthac fought, and in the case he lost, she promised to spirit the Leyanna to safety. Other val'kyr were there too, flying around the cavernous ceiling to spectate and watch this battle – between the Small Dragon and Gardjon.

Drekthac's opponent had more prestige than he expected. For years Gardjon had been champion of the Underhalls and twice a Valhalas contestant who slew all the competitors he had faced against – even when faced with a team like the Rockeater Twins. With the power and respect he had acquired, Gardjon had built himself as a sort of political power for the underground. Leading host of the Underhalls tournaments, scores of slaves, a few wives. All the women chained up were his property, freely given to the crowds. He scored coin by selling the better whores to takers for private enclaves and rooms – or to just fuck as they watched the fights.

But while Gardjon was many things, he had never won Valhalas. He was not of the Ymirjar. That wasn't to say he couldn't have won if he entered as a competitor, but... Well, Drekthac clung to the notion that he was just another Jotunheim warrior.

Drekthac stood alone in the pits, surrounded by the chaos. He watched the hosts filter in to their seats, all but Gardjon himself, and waited with only the steady pulse of his blood as company. At the end of this night, Gardjon would be dead – his head staked outside Drekthac's door – and that chapter would be closed. He could feel the animal inside stirring restlessly.

Normally Drekthac would have stripped down for the fighting, but he doubted a blood match would be held in subligaculum. He expected Gardjon in full armor, but to add to the insult, he kept only his drake-skin clothing and bracers, without weapons. He was an Underhalls champion, and he would fight as an Underhalls champion.

From the corners of the cavern, drums began to sound. Deep, echoing beats, and at the sound, the crowds roared with excitement. Drekthac inclined his head, looking for where Gardjon might make his appearance. Everything was focused solely on his match now. Heads began to turn to the hosts' balcony, so he followed their gaze.

Gardjon entered as a mountain of a vrykul. Thick, heavy slabs of muscle covered his giant body, and over it all was a full raiment of thorny armor, including a helm where even the eyes were two black sockets. He carried the armor like it was cloth too, without hindrance. On his back was a massive double axe, nearly twice as long as Drekthac was tall with a wingspan of almost six feet. That weapon was a body cleaver. Drekthac's arms already ached at just the thought of parrying its weight.

Standing at the edge of the balcony, Gardjon stared at Drekthac with a mocking smirk. Bellowing over the crowd, he announced, "It seems the human doesn't understand a blood match. Someone loan him a knife so that he survives at least the first strike!"

There was laughter, but Drekthac waved the crowds back as they quieted down. "Keep it, for now. I will fight this in the Underhalls manner. Drop the weapons in at the usual call."

"You think pride will preserve you in a blood match? Hah!" Gardjon jumped from the balcony and crashed into the stone of the pits, his sturdy legs absorbing the landing well. He towered over Drekthac at their equal footing. "Unarmed. Unarmored. That is not bravery; it is foolishness. I see you humans don't understand the difference. I'll take pleasure in gutting you for it."

Drekthac let out an exaggerated sigh. "I do wish there were three more of you here, so that you would kill each other as you flail about with that tree you've been lugging like a slave. At least you'll give me a laugh when you fall on your ass for missing."

"Smug Whelp," Gardjon hissed. He reached over his head with both hands, grabbed the axe, and swung it down to split the stone floor in massive cleave. Drekthac barely raised an eyebrow as the crack passed between his legs. "You have no idea how I longed for this day."

"I could say the same," Drekthac mentioned. _Fucking hell, that weapon. It better be as slow as I hope, with its size._ "Call the match, hosts! Let this be over with!" As one of them stood, Drekthac noticed something black drip from Gardjon's axe. Poison.

_Fuck._

The start was hollered. In an instant, Gardjon ripped his weapon up from the ground and turned it for a sweeping strike that would cut Drethac right through the middle. Far, far too fast for its size, even for a vrykul, and he knew then that one of the runes would be lightness for the holder – a damn expensive enchantment, but not entirely unexpected.

Drekthac dropped under the blade as it passed, feeling the torrent of air displacement sending him into a brief roll, then sprang up close to the vrykul, where the blade couldn't easily reach. Gardjon went for a haft strike, but keeping nimble, Drekthac grabbed the wood and swung around it like it was a pole, then shoved both boots into the side of a knee. The leg fell open as the joint strained, but it didn't snap as Drekthac had hoped. While Gardjon was still off balance though, he decided to open with his favorite vrykul take-down.

With the planted leg that bore all the weight, Drekthac grabbed it at the knee with both hands and tugged with everything he had. Gardjon barely managed to switch his weight to the bent leg in time, having seen the move a dozen times before as host, and kicked Drekthac back with the caught leg. When Drekthac tried jumping forward again, Gardjon swung his axe back in one hand. He barely got outside of its immense range in time.

The crowds roared. There were too many voices and sounds to pick out their words, but the general consensus was excitement that Drekthac hadn't been felled already. The usual Underhalls crowd, those that watched his fights, was drowned out by the rest of Jotunheim who had come with curiosity. Everyone knew the Whelp was strong enough to fight vrykul, was the champion of the Underhalls, but he impressed little.

With a bellow of his own, Drekthac dove in, slipping by Gardjon's quick chops. Using the wide top of the vrykul's boot as a step, he lunged up the massive frame, but with Gardjon's step back, he missed the spike he intended for leverage and cut into the palm of his hand with it. Growling, he planted his foot on the flat stomach armor and kicked the rest of the way up.

Gods _damn_ Gardjon was big. His knee smashed under the chin of helmet, hoping to clock him good in the weak spot, yet pain exploded from the knee as it crashed with the metal and his momentum was stopped, falling backwards now. Anxious of impaling himself on one of the armor's spikes, Drekthac kicked off a hulking shoulder to push himself further away. He landed awkwardly, but nothing snapped.

Looking up, he watched Gardjon finally recover from his stumble, just as the massive plate helmet hit the ground with an echoing clang. All the sounds of battle seemed amplified, while the roaring crowds a dull buzz. Sweat prickled everywhere along his skin, breathing a light pant, as Drekthac met Gardjon's eyes and glare.

His cut hand itched annoyingly, and briefly Drekthac checked the crowd. Absolutely thrilled with the fight. The call for weapons would be some time in coming. Clenching the aching hand, he refused to look at it, for the tell-tale angry red marking or black drops of poison. He spat into the palm, then sprinted back.

His head felt strangely light, but he reassured himself it was only the adrenaline. Poison wouldn't work that fast.

The charge was halted as Gardjon swept his weapon back and forth. The axe had all the weight, all the integrity of its size, yet it moved like a hollow toy. Drekthac stayed cautious, glaring not at it but into Gardjon's blue eyes. The Dragon would not fall easily, nor would he be cowed, no matter his position.

Then Drekthac stepped back, dropping his stance to spread his hands out at his sides. He immediately drew the attention of the crowds. With a smirk, he shouted, "What is the matter, Gardjon the Feeble? Is the Whelp too much for you, even without armor? Without weapons? Imagine when the call comes!"

The audacity sent the crowd howling, and Gardjon's eyes burned with a rage so intense it was nearly tangible. Drekthac felt the muscles in his left arm trying to twitch, but he wasn't concerned by the delay.

"Like a cockroach, you seem to fit between my boot!" Gardjon roared, jumping forward with his axe for a wide swing. Drekthac lost his confident poise as he jumped away, settling back into a wary stance. "You remind me of a monkey, always hopping away. Tiny too!"

Drekthac had another hope for Gardjon, to help his chance of success. While he had a long history as a great warrior and champion, Gardjon had turned to the civilian life by hosting the tournaments. Unless he took to private training, he carried his armor and little else around for years, while Drekthac continued fighting in the Underhalls on a weekly basis – and each tournament was a long serious of exhausting fights with little rest.

Endurance. That should be Drekthac's one advantage over Gardjon. He just needed to stay alive long enough.

At the next engagement, Drekthac saw during his approach the way Gardjon heaved back his axe, as if he meant to... With wild eyes, Drekthac dropped low as he could, letting drake-skin armor scrape along the stone, as Gardjon threw his axe sideways. It spun in lethargic, lofty circles around, also getting lower with each second since it left Gardjon's hands, until the blade sliced only a few inches over Drekthac's head as the axe passed over him.

While the Whelp was sliding still, Gardjon ripped a vrykul dagger from his waist and lunged forward for an impaling blow. The poisons coating the blade would finish the job if the blade didn't, yet as he swung it low and forward, the human recovered also swinging forward. The dagger met Gardjon's helmet with a loud and awkward clang – barely snatched from the ground – and his dagger scraped around the smooth part to lock against a spike.

The parry held long enough for them to hear the immense crash of the axe crashing into the pit wall, breaking the stones and sending the bricks spilling into the arena. The axe itself fell atop the pile, but neither warrior was looking for it. With furious war cries, they broke apart to quick strikes, dagger beat back by helmet, until after one exchange, Gardjon snapped a quick kick. Drekthac heaved an exhale as he was flung far back. Only the drake-skin saved his ribs from shattering, though he lost the ability to breath in a sudden rush.

Gardjon pressed forward, eager for Drekthac's blood. When the vrykul was close enough, Drekthac, still gasping for breath, chucked the steel helmet at his head. The hulking man flinched as it bounced from his forward, halting the rush and giving Drekthac the time to attack. Too late did Gardjon see the movement, allowing Drekthac to kicked against the joint of the left knee once again.

There was a pop, a shifting movement felt under Drekthac's boot as the actual noise was overcome by the crowd. While Gardjon was still buckling though, there was a quick swipe of the dagger, and hot pain flared from Drekthac's chest as it bit across the skin. Enraged, Drekthac threw his shoulder against the wounded knee, sending the vrykul sideways, then jumped around behind him and threw himself at the soft spot behind the good knee pushing until the whole mountain came crashing down to the stones.

It was a race against time now, as the poison was sure to set in now. The dagger's coating would be more potent and deadly than armor spikes as precaution of Gardjon accidentally pricking himself in combat. Fortunately, with the fall of the man, there were roars as people called for weapons to be dropped in. Drekthac heard them clanging in as he heaved for breath, watching Gardjon scrambling to get back up.

_Fucking armor._ Drekthac found himself a handaxe and hefted it up, but he knew that Gardjon's armor would be the main issue. The legs were only protected at the front, but cutting through vrykul flesh, even with his strength, was was like hewing trees. Only a well-placed blow with appropriate power would have any effect, and this fight had shown little such opportunities.

Gardjon was finally standing now, and he threw aside his dagger angrily. With gleaming eyes, he peered at Drekthac, then limped over to his axe, easily taking it from the wall. There was a scheme in those eyes, Drekthac saw. Some pleasurable and confident though, and it worried him. Sure, the ruined knee wouldn't bother much as the armored vrykul wasn't relying on mobility, but...

The poison burned hot trails through his blood now. Drekthac's pulse began to accelerate despite himself.

At the first step towards Gardjon, with the vrykul making his way over at a more sedate pace, the Drekthac thought the axe felt significantly lighter than it should. His first suspicion was the poison altering his perception, but as he held it forward, he noticed the axe was missing its whole head. His eyes went wide, then narrowed as Gardjon laughed during his final steps from Drekthac.

A fucking stick was in his hands!

With a curse, Drekthac rolled aside from the first swing of the recovered axe, then stepped back cautiously, forcing Gardjon to approach on that hurt leg. It wasn't even heavy enough to hurt if he threw it, and certainly not enough to stop that axe, even on a parry with the shaft. "Hela take you, Gardjon!"

"I'd say you were soon to meet her, but humans don't have the honor!" Gardjon mocked. One of the spikes from the helm seemed to have pierced his forehead, causing blood to run down his face.

In spite, Drekthac threw the thick stick at the vrykul, then made a sprint for the other weapons. He turned desperate as his muscles started to convulse, the culprit he assumed to be the poison, then made quick study of the weapons on the grounds. Some were already broken, just from the landing, but at least a few still held integrity. He snatched up a speak, quickly running his eye down its entire length for flaws, and felt a surge of triumph at a wholesome weapon.

With the leg, Gardjon was slow to meet him, allowing him the precious time – the poison made the gift bittersweet. Turning, Drekthac prepared to engage his opponent again. The entire torso, arms, and front of his legs were armored. That left the head, neck (no matter how impossible with their heights), and behind his legs. Gods, Drekthac wanted to shove the whole spear up Gardjon's ass.

He made forward fast as his body would allow without a spasm. Gardjon readied a swing. With a room-shaking bellow, Gardjon swung first in a simple side swipe. Drekthac let it pass before him, then dove in. Gardjon sent the weapon back quickly, and just barely did Drekthac manage to catch the wood against his spear in a parry.

_Damn it._

He recalled why that was a bad idea as it took him from his feet entirely and sent him all the way to the far wall, where he crashed into the stone and bounced off harshly to the floor. His head exploded with pain and a loud ringing, and all the strength he possessed slipped out all at once. Idly, the hardened warrior felt the spear slip from motionless fingers.

Gardjon.

Gardjon.

Gardjon.

The crowd took up the cry, cheering for their favorite combatant. Idly, Drekthac thought it was a little early for the victory chant, but as he laid there unmoving, he felt it was clear why. It wasn't right though. That was the wrong name. Every fiber of his being reminded him that it was the wrong name. His pride, his honor, criticized it, then chastise him for letting it happen.

With a groan, Drekthac found his rage again. That was the first step, letting the white hot fury fill his being again, and with it, his strength and conscious returned. He pushed himself to his knees and shook his aching head, then grabbed the spear and stood to his feet. Gardjon had the biggest shit-eating gloat on his face with his approach.

A vrykul spear was damn long. Already twelve yards tip to end, and thick enough that it took both hands to wrap around it fully. The point was a good foot of long, narrow steel, tied by a frayed cord to the wood it was fitted to. It was his one chance of beating the sack of shit he was faced against. Gods be praised that this was only a blood match and not a tournament with another opponent just after.

Settling into a cautious stance with three fourths of the length held outward, Drekthac recalled the name he had been given his first day standing as champion in this tournament. The Underhalls Champion, a human who beat both vrykul and Valhalas vargul. Little, but fierce as a dragon. Whelp, some cried, while Freydis announced for all to hear:

"_Behold the Small Dragon! Victorious of his trial for freedom! A human stands among you today, a champion of the Underhalls!"_

And the crowds had gone wild, just for him. His name on every tongue. So fuck Gardjon. Fuck the hope on endurance. Fuck the poison that was blurring his vision. Fuck the armor, the immense size, the overwhelming strength. Fuck the enchanted house-cleaving axe. Fuck the chant and the people. He needed one good strike to end this. He knew how to fight vrykul better than Gardjon could fight humans.

"Gods damn, look at the Whelp!"

"He's attacking!"

Drekthac heard their cries and cheers as he ran forward. His body felt strangely light and his attention very narrow. Gardjon was ready, grinning broadly. Again though, Drekthac proved too nimble for the overhead cleave, slipping around as it split stone, but then he dropped into a cautious roll before a follow-up. Gardjon growled as Drekthac passed between his legs.

In a solid kneel, Drekthac already had the weapon repositioned for the perfect strike. He devoted all of his strength into the spear thrust, aimed not at the ass as he hoped but the good leg. He'd completely disable the giant. His strike was true and hit the unprotected flesh just behind the knee and with his strength would penetrate leather and knee, and likely the kneecap and even armor too.

But Drekthac watched as the point hit but bent sideways. The cord holding the metal to the shaft snapped and unraveled in slow motion as his thrust pushed more force against the vrykul. The metal left the joint and skewed to the side, eventually falling off entirely, until it was just the wooden shaft being shoved into the vulnerable spot.

Another sabotaged weapon. A wooden pole was all he had, to fight this armored monster. Gods damn.

The blow still took Gardjon's leg from him, and with his ruined knee, the giant fell. The poison had begun the strength-sapping phase, but shaking off the blackness from his sight, Drekthac threw aside his spear and jumped upon Gardjon's back.

In an honest pit fight, the battle would have been Drekthac's. Without the poison, even this one would have, or if Drekthac had come with his own solid weapons... But the Dragon didn't believe in lamenting the conditions of a fight. He wanted, needed, to beat Gardjon in the most humiliating way possible, while holding true to the honor of the Underhalls.

The Alliance did not understand such ways of pride and glory. Drekthac would rather be undone by hubris than live forever through a complacent, careful life. The vrykul understood such ways though, glorified and lived it, and by the gods, Drekthac had never felt so alive as with them.

The first kick to Gardjon's unarmored head rattled the vrykul, and he grunted loudly. Drekthac's next attempt was gouging out both eyes with his fingers, but he barely managed to squeeze them through the right eye, feeling the pop and warm ooze spilling over him, while Gardjon wildly shook his head to save his left. Barely a second later, a hand seized Drekthac by the waist and hurled him into the stone wall again.

Finding himself near the weapons again, Drekthac took up a sword and shield, hoping that someone among the crowds had thrown down their own weapon rather than rely on the hosts'. Shaking with adrenaline and muscle twitches from the poison, Drekthac banged the hilt against the shield in a beat, to keep from falling stationary enough to be overcome by the poison.

Before Gardjon stood again though, Drekthac noticed a subtle movement from his wrist and head. It looked like Gardjon had slipped something from a sleeve and ate or drank it. What could...? The vrykul looked up with furious eyes – both of them, with the right bloody and stained but whole again. He stood again without a limp.

A gods damn healing potion. Drekthac surprised himself by almost letting defeat sweep through him. Instead, his rage grew, and he flung himself against Gardjon again, while the man was still fumbling for his axe. Gardjon stepped back and barely blocked the first strike, roaring at the sudden burst of shrapnel as Drekthac's sword shattered at the strike. He tried to follow through with an attack, but Drekthac struck again, with the shield, and he broke the wooden circle against Gardjon's right gauntlet.

Despite the armor and the flimsy medium, Gardjon paused as his whole hand went numb at the attack. Plate warped into each other, locking the joints to where he could barely uncurl his fingers if he tried. Looking back for his puny opponent, Gardjon found Drekthac with just the spear point in his hand, and the human jumped upon Gardjon's leg in a mad fury. Even with his disgust for the small race, Gardjon found a great respect for the Whelp.

All the more reason to kill him.

Drekthac tried sticking the metal into Gardjon's neck, but an elbow nearly took him off. The hand that came to rip him away found the blade point buried in its palm, while Drekthac's own hand oozed red from its grip over a sharp blade. Unthinking of the pain, he yanked the blade out and curved it up into Drekthac's neck again. Barely, Gardjon craned away to get the dagger stuck in his back instead, just above the armor line. He roared as Drekthac jumped away.

The crowds renewed roaring and excitement was barely noticed as ambiance. Drekthac found new weapons and broke them against Gardjon's knee as the man was still reaching up to try and pull the blade out. The armor restricted Gardjon arms too much, and the man found his knee nearly dislocated for the effort.

But as Drekthac broke weapon and after weapon against Gardjon, to little avail, he found that no true weapon remained among those dropped in, while the crowd cheered the name "Ironhide" for Gardjon, thinking him that great. With some of the last apparently wholesome weapons, Drekthac found them broke again even though he got fragments stuck in Gardjon's leg, but at the same time the poison dagger Gardjon had returned to finally scored him in the stomach.

The first slash of it had been difficult enough to see through, but this cut went through the muscle, and Drekthac stumbled back with a cry, knowing that would be his downfall here. The crowd was a maddened beast at the hit, knowing it as well.

At nearly ten yards in front of Gardjon, Drekthac fell to his knees, hand over wound. The poison was quick, his muscles unresponsive, while his vision flickered with terrible unreliability. He fought the urge to give in to the blackness, but all he could see was Gardjon, face a bloodied mess, grinning victoriously.

Drekthac couldn't see a way out this time. An echo of memory twitched forward, bringing with it Freydis voice as if she were right beside him again. _"Have you ever had that feeling when you think you're going to die?"_

"Get out of my head, Freydis," Drekthac mumbled at it.

"_And when you realize, you feel that sinking from your stomach to the floor. Your hands won't stop their shaking, and you feel you just can't go on."_

Drekthac groaned, remembering the conversation very well, and knowing the harsh criticism coming from it. He needed to focus, to... to find a way to continue, but the poison was powerful, and the a hallucination rose from it, breathing to life an image of him and Freydis before his eyes.

There he was, a man of broad shoulders and almost orcish sized muscles. So confident in his strength, so full of pride, with thick lips that found a gloating smile to be their natural state. His eyes were dark and hair bronze, and his cheeks sported his usual stubble. He'd considered long, braided hair like the vrykul, but he always found that a bother and so kept it short, where its natural waviness kept it from appearing windblown.

Red drake-skin vest and pants were his favorite, both durable and suiting, and skinned from his own kill of a proto-drake. The top was held shut by several ties down the front, and his thick, hairy arms were crossed before it, bared up to his melon-like shoulders. That image said to his val'kyr friend, _"Of course I have. For one reason or another, I've always been seen out alive though."_

"_Not always, you won't. Not always,"_ the giant undead spirit told him pensively. More directly, she said, _"But you are a fighter though. I will tell you this once, Baelin the Dragon: far too often I've seen warriors die on their knees. Those that stand once more though, those that even though they were clearly defeated, stood once more – to die on their feet, if nothing else – they do not die easy. There is strength in just standing, a strength that lives forever. That is what we look for as Arbiters. The next time you find yourself so, stand once more and see if you can't see yourself out alive."_

The cocky Drekthac turned confused, thoughtful, while the kneeling Drekthac cursed at the image. Fucking glowy-ass bitch, to lord over him at this moment. Stand, she wants. He'll fucking stand then.

With his fading, gray-cast vision, Drekthac saw Gardjon once again, now closer. Ah, that rage within him. It was the only thinking keeping the poison at bay, only thing keeping him alive. He reveled in it, in bloodlust, in all the wonders and glory of battle. He doubted he'd long keep up with a vrykul's strength without it.

Him and Gardjon were all that existed in Drekthac's world at this point, with even the hallucination vanishing. While the distance between them closed, he found his hand resting upon something solid, that wasn't the ground. Drekthac kept himself tense, calm despite himself. He was familiar with poison. He would explode himself into movement, throw the last of himself in it, and the world would clear up briefly for it. Everything would come down to that moment. He needed to win in it.

The crowds thought him defeated already, Gardjon himself too. Overconfidence. The watching val'kyr waited patiently, though they would assume this to be the end as well. It was. In the crowd would be Freydis, watching with a neutral expression this moment. She suspected, perhaps hoped, that memory would take him in this moment. She would not be disappointed. Beside her would be Leyanna, biting her fingernails with worry, he guessed. Darling nymph, that girl. She did not belong here, in this crowd, with him, or near anything vrykul.

Gardjon took the final step, and the giant readied himself for the finishing strike. Two daggers in hand, axe sheathed on his back. Gardjon had been so careful in keeping Drekthac from getting that axe, from getting a real weapon. He was afraid of Drekthac, knew he'd lose if the Dragon had himself some fangs. He forgot all about the fire though, the fool.

Like the beast he took the name of, Drekthac roared. His hand grasped the wood shaft of the broken spear, and he threw himself up with full exertion, pushing every ounce of his strength into a spear thrust angled upward. He could see into Gardjon's clean eye the way the pupil dilated, whole face scrunching with surprise and a flinch, but too late he moved, too slow with the armor, and the splintered spear point gouged itself into the vrykul's throat.

This is the Underhalls, darlin'. There is no honor here.

Shoving the spear deeper, still screaming in rage and fury, Drekthac left it planted in his throat and scooped up the fallen helmet with his left hand. With a step, he swung it up into Gardjon's groin with a hallow clang. Though the vrykul had a plate cup, the blow was hard enough to dent the helmet and leave his hand numb enough that he dropped the helmet. Gurgling, Gardjon stumbled forward a few steps past Drekthac.

Nostrils flaring with agonized and furious breaths, Gardjon dropped his knives and worked the spear from his neck. He was gasping when it came free, blood spurting once over the pit's stone wall, but nothing vital had been hit. Drekthac could see Gardjon shaking in his rage now, and after discarding the shaft, he reached up for his axe and slowly lifted it free.

Drekthac's own body was a wild frenzy of sensations. He wore no armor with enchantments to keep him well or make him stronger. When Gardjon turned to him though, murder on his face, Drekthac felt ready enough. Unless the giant had another healing potion, he could still win.

When Drkethac took his first step forward though, hand back to covering the slash on his stomach, something slammed down in front of him. He blinked stupidly at the wooden pole upright in front of him, with wispy blue energy still peeling off it, and he touched it with his free hand.

Enchanted power flooded through his hand to his body. His wounds lost their ache, the poison its power, and his muscles abruptly felt ready to go a dozen more rounds than they just had. It was a polearm, he realized, thrown in from the crowds as a late weapon. He grasped it and pried the blade from the stone, eyes wide at the gift.

The blade, hooked at the end and a hand's width just before the shaft, was familiar. His lip turned up, and he held the weapon with the blood slicked hand too. Giving it a twirl, Drekthac found himself laughing, to the astonishment of the crowd. The bruised and batter Whelp, bleeding from several cuts and obviously poisoned, would behave so confidently, at just one more weapon?

Gardjon was lumbering towards him with the massive axe, but Drekthac wasn't cowed. He met the weapon in a parry and held his ground, still grinning viciously. When Gardjon went for a shove, Drekthac let go and watched Gardjon fall out of balance, then jumped aside and swept out his legs with a solid hit. Before the vrykul had even fallen, Drekthac was leaping up, blade angled downward, and he impaled him through the armored stomach.

Roars and screams around them drowned out Gardjon's own bellow. A fist swatted Drekthac off, polearm ripping out, but Drekthac, in his delirious madness, was unphased, and he drove forward even with the axe already sweeping his way. He rolled under the first swing, then jumped the second as Gardjon tried standing again, then jumped upon the spiked chest with his boots first and slammed the blade into the breastplate. Only a large rend was scored in the armor, but a steadier blow punctured it slightly.

"You're dead, Gardjon!" Drekthac roared. With wide, desperate eyes, Gardjon threw him off again, into the wall, where Drekthac almost found himself knocked out for good. But he kept ahold of the polearm, fed by its enchantments, and with blood oozing down his front, he stood up once again, lips etched in their bloody smile.

Gardjon planted the axe as a crutch to stand again. His mistake. Drekthac knocked aside the support, nearly sending Gardjon flat on his back again, then managed a solid thump against the unprotected head. The eyes crossed as he fell stunned. Not one for theatrics, Drekthac stood with one boot on Gardjon's chest, stomped the other beside his dazed, searching head, and angled the blade just before the bleeding neck.

He roared with all the excitement, adrenaline, and rage he could as he plunged it deep into the neck, ripping through the skin despite its gifted enchantments from Gardjon's armor, through the muscle and bone, and out the back. He yanked back and thrust it in again, relishing the spray of blood. Still roaring, he struck and struck, until Gardjon's eyes and mouth no longer moved, then set upon hacking the whole head away from the body.

The head was thrust up by the grey hair, mouth agape and eyes rolled up. Drekthac stumbled as he held it, but he saw the crowds roaring around him. Men smacked the arms of each other, gesturing at him in heated argument. Others cheered for him, taking up the consuming mantra of his name.

Dragon.

Dragon.

Dragon.

Those not native to the Underhalls looked confused at first, used to mocking "Whelp," but still amazed from the victory, they quickly fell into it. The vargul, from their overlooked, beat their spears against the floor to it, while the val'kyr high above watched him with complete stillness and silence. The immense size of this crowd made the cheer nearly overwhelming, and Drekthac blinked with surprise for another second.

Then, gripping the polearm tight as the last source of strength for him, he steadied his feet and roared once again. He roared his triumph, his life, his passion, his rage. The sound rose over the crowds, echoing off the walls, and the crowds bellowed back, excited. The Dragon's victory roar.

The rest of Drekthac's strength seemed to disappear into the roar, and it trailed off to him nearly collapsing to the stone floor. His breathing was ragged as he used the polearm as a crutch, Gardjon's head hanging at his side. Looking down to his poisoned wounds, he found blood spilled over his vest and dripping down his pants. He blinked at the amount, wondering if it was all his.

The next blink, he was on the ground, groaning at the impact. Merciful fuck, he had nothing left. He couldn't stand anymore. Not even the sight of the bedwarmers up there, some with skirts hiked up, could bring him any satisfaction. Too exhausted, too weak.

Time began to distort and his vision cloud again – not from the poison this time. As he sat there blankly, debating on whether to fight it off or give in, he noticed something bright filling his vision. He blinked up at the extended hand, wondering if an angel had come to guide his spirit to the meadhalls of the heavens. He knew that face though.

He accepted the hand. Warmth flooded through his body, burning away his pain and exhaustion, even as the strong hand lifted him back to his feet. The poison dispersed from him, and he looked down to notice his wounds clotting. Remembering both hands had been occupied, he saw he still gripped Gardjon's head tightly, but in her left hand was the bloody polearm he had used.

"Hey, Freydis, let's fuck tonight, eh?" he mumbled absently as she supported him. The crowd's renewed roaring drowned out his followup: "After we send the kid off."

The val'kyr kept herself stoic, just barely. He saw her lips twitch at the comment, but then she thrust his hand up and bellowed, "Behold the Dragon! Slayer of Gardjon!" He thrust the head up again, allowing himself to revel in pride now that his life wasn't in danger. Oh, now those bedwarmers were looking rather nice. And that one even shaved!

With a nod at Freydis, Drekthac let go of her hand. He spat on Gardjon's corpse before turning to the stairs out of the pit. The flash-healing that Freydis had done to him sustained him well. He shouted with the men in the crowd as he saw them, remaining upright at the beats to his shoulder, accepting ale as it came.

Some of those he knew came up wish gold cupped between there hands, boasting of their winnings off him in the betting pool. One thrust a handful of coins at him, then socked him in the face. Drekthac fell against the crowd, blinking at the assailant, while the man yelled at him for such risky, reckless behavior as to come unarmed and unarmored. Then they laughed and clasped hands.

Two women grouped up on either side of him and lifted him well off the ground to plant a kiss on both cheeks at the same time. Husky promises were whispered into his ears then, but as he listened with a pleased smile, he watched a blue shape push her way through the crowd. The vrykul let her pass, unwilling to touch one of the Dragon's women.

When he was on the ground again, Leyanna rushed forward for an awkward hug. Drekthac laughed with merriment as he let her, listening her try to blab her worry for him over the sound of the crowd. He noticed her shrink to better suit his height though, from nymph to elf, and while the vrykul commented at it, he lifted her whole body up and sat her on his broad right shoulder. The crowds cheered, while Leyanna squirmed and grasped at his head for balance.

His wounds reopened during it all, but that was expected when passing this crowd. Keeping Leyanna on his shoulder, Drekthac looked back through the crowd of towering vrykul. Freydis had rejoined her sisters, speaking solemnly with them.

Drekthac caught the eye of a vrykul sporting a thick leather apron and several cleavers at his waist. The man nodded his respect, while Drekthac roared, "I'm feasting tonight! Two boars!" The butcher's hands fell to his waist and chest puffed up as he laughed before returning, "I'll bring them prepared, Whelp! A prize for you!"

The crowd around them cheered and promised other feasting foods. These were the usual Underhalls dwellers, those that knew Drekthac as more than the human who lived in Jotunheim. Looking to the edges, he found other familiar faces with the slave girls, cheering as they went. The vrykul that had come for Gardjon though were engaged in heated discussion, throwing their arms towards Drekthac and spitting at each other.

Drekthac almost found himself looking for a post-duel brawl to join in before remembering his wounds and Leyanna still on his shoulder. With a few more boasts and words with the attendants, Drekthac raised an acknowledging fist towards the vargul – who beat their chests once in return – then left back to the surface. Normally he would prefer to remain in the heated crowds, but so long as Leyanna was still with him, he cut his time with them short.

XxX

"He does look pretty out there, doesn't he?" Drekthac mentioned warmly, staring towards his door. He finally had his favorite mounted head ornament outside in the shape of Gardjon's dripping mug. "Damned bastard," he snorted, turning back to his table. Freydis was seated there, and Leyanna stood in her nymph form at one side. Foods of all kinds covered the whole length, given freely from those who enjoyed his victory.

"Your recklessness remains on every tongue," Freydis mentioned, joining him in grabbing food. "The Arbiters do not approve of your attempted boasts, only to survive in such pitiful conditions. Some question if it is you that won... or luck."

"Bah," Drekthac dismissed, tearing right into the boar first. "All I needed was one good weapon to beat him." He peered over at her, swallowed, and admitted, "Thank you for that."

"In a blood match, now matter your words or preparations, how you walk into it is how you agree to fight your opponent. Outside weapons, armor, companions – all that is interference and cheating. I did not lend you my weapon because Gardjon had the others broken or because Gardjon agreed that your weapons would come at the call of the crowds. I threw it to you only when it was clear that victory was yours, to quicken the end."

Leyanna pipped in, holding an ear of corn in her hands, "You had me worried sick, you ogre-man, as Freydis told me what was happening. I didn't know you were supposed to be armed and armored until the... bastard came stomping through, and she told me how you were poisoned, and how your weapons were sabotaged, and the potion he took, and how you sat defeated near the end. I begged her to help you, but she said she couldn't, not until you proved yourself able to win without it."

Pointing the corn at him, she had a frown as she said, "Empty-headed buffoon, getting off on your own pride."

Drekthac looked down at his hands, seeing the new scars along his palms. From holding just the blades of weapons in trying to kill Gardjon, and the puckered welt where he'd stabbed himself on the poisoned armor. Leyanna had helped heal him after getting back home, as well as she could. Snorting, he said, "I didn't win that to hear a bunch of women nag about me. Stuff your faces and be hearty, wenches." He smiled to take the edge away.

After draining her mug of ale, Freydis smashed the goblet down with a pleased sigh. "One thing I miss in the Val'kyr Halls are the strong drinks. Everyone seems to think we're above drinking, now that it isn't necessary for us."

Leyanna tilted her head, curious. "So you can still feel it, even though you are... like you are?"

"Yes, we can, child," Freydis told her, smiling under her face mask. "The Lich King converted us from living bodies, not raised dead. Unlike the usual ghosts out there, we are something a bit more... substantial."

Leyanna nodded, intrigued. "So... besides the looks, is there anything else different about you with the transformation?" Drekthac watched on, having never asked these questions himself.

"Power," Freydis muttered, quieter. "Rapturous power that the Lich King gave me, over both life and death. As a Hyldnir at the Valkyrion, we forsook the Hyldsmeet to vie for the Lich King's favor and earn the right to be given this transformation, and I succeeded." She drank again, leaving a solemn silence, until she smiled to break it. "There is the good though, that I no longer must sleep, eat, or drink. Also, I do not have to deal with the biannual cycle anymore."

"The vrykul are biannual?" Leyanna asked, changing the subject. Despite her kind words and personality, the undead were an abomination to the nature girls. "Mine runs annually, only in the spring, but if I take the kaldorei shape for any length of time, I notice it comes much more often. What about you, Drek? How often does the human woman's cycle come?"

"Monthly," Drekthac grumbled around his mug.

Leyanna and Freydis both gave exaggerated grimaces before Freydis laughed, "I don't blame you for being so eager to leave them." Leyanna giggled behind a hand at it. Drekthac waved them away, trying to move the conversation back onto topic of combat and glory.

Together they drank and laughed, feasting into the night. Their merriment lasted until Freydis finally insisted after Valhalas. Drekthac knew it was coming, but he first took another drink before attempting his reply.

"The last Valhalas, I sat watching in the crowds, if you remember. The team was three, the huntsman and his wife, along with his big, grey-haired brother. I thought they would win. I actually saw the love between the couple as they fought, a _vrykul_ couple, working as a whole to keep each other safe and kill everyone that stood against them. I admired them, grew the vrykul respect for their skill and power. The huntress showed grace I'd never expect from a vrykul."

He drank again, while the two women stared at him. Freydis had retreated to her usual stoicism, while Leyanna frowned, suspecting by his tone the ending.

He picked it up again with eyes facing his mug: "It was the Thane... Thane Byjron the Thirster. That was how Geirrvif introduced him. She did not speak of his other names, or how he acquired that title. His insatiable thirst for blood. He was the second to last challenge before the three would be victorious.

"I watched... as first the brother had his head ripped from his body. Not by weapon, but between Byjron's two hands, and he drank the blood spurt like the lowest whore does an orgasm. That duel axe wielding barbarian lost so quickly, so suddenly. I had never seen such... No, but the couple. The younger brother had his legs cut off at the knees, then both his hands. And his woman, screaming, with her bow broken between her fists..."

He looked up with hard eyes. "He was made to watch as the Thane dragged his woman to the center of the pit, watched him break all her limbs, and he raped her, as we in the crowds cheered on. And when he was done, do you remember what he did, Freydis?"

"Go... goddess," Leyanna whimpered, hand before her mouth and eyes wide.

"Indeed I do, Dragon." Her voice was entirely without emotion.

"He pulled from her her entrails and made her wear them, as she still howled out. The Tanner, the crowd cried out, as Byjron dragged the sobbing woman to her husband and began to peel her skin from the muscle, letting him see every detail of it. And he gagged the man with her skin, let him taste her blood as he shed tears. And when it was over, Freydis, that was when the crowds were truly pleased, weren't they? The Puzzlebox."

"Byjron is a monster even among vrykul, Baelin," Freydis said softly. "The crowd comes for blood and death, for the greatest battle pit of all the vrykul, and he gives them everything they want."

"There was no honor in their deaths. No glory in it. Even as Valhalas competitors, those great warriors lost every morsel of their pride and respect by their end. And the crowds cheered at it. I remembering watching it all from the crowds, and I felt... fear, Freydis, fear at the complete destruction of everything a warrior builds up in his life. And not just their deaths, but watching Byjron fight... at the time, I did not know enough of fighting vrykul to understand how I could possibly beat such a monster."

He noticed Leyanna was crying silently, with trails of tears running from her eyes. It surprised him, for her couldn't understand why, until remembering the soft hearts of nymphs. The savagery Byjron had committed was not a new thing to him – in the small race underground gladiatorial arenas, similar events took place.

Quietly, the one that urged him into the maws of a such a tournament asked, "And do you now understand how to end such a monster, Dragon?"

Drekthac finished his mug and let it fall to the table. Meeting her eyeless stare, he said, "Yes, I do, and I am no longer afraid. But even with my armor and my weapons, it will be a hard victory."

From the side, Leyanna's whimpering voice cut in, "F-fuck that. _Fuck_ that, Drek. Why the hell would you enter that tournament? Goddess, why?"

"Because Baelin Drekthac possesses the soul of a Ymirjar, but he may not pass the Gates of Ymirheim," Freydis answered solemnly, without looking away from Drekthac.

"And why the hell is it so important he passes those gates, huh? What the- the fuck is so important in Ymirheim?" The poor nymph was so worked up, cheeks red and curses awkwardly passing her tongue but with meaning. Freydis did not have an answer for her, frost vrykul that she was.

Drekthac understood her frustration though, knew why she didn't comprehend. Softly, he answered, "Glory... Glory, honor, respect, brotherhood. To pass through those gates is to enter legends; the pinnacle of everything that gives all of our violence and savagery meaning, Leyanna, that makes us something more than sadistic killers."

The fierce tension bled out of Leyanna, realizing that was one of his essential differences that he explained before. In a small voice, she asked, "Why not find meaning elsewhere? In growing a forest, in saving the little critters from reckless predators – or in your terms, protect the innocent from the savage? Why must you _be_ the savage?"

"Because this human has the soul of one greater than even these vrykul: a true Ymirjar." Leyanna shot a glare at Freydis, and the undead woman returned the look without expression. Drekthac blew out a sigh, knowing there was nothing he could say.

Standing from his place at head of the table, he mentioned, "I think it's time I let you go, Leyanna. Back into the frozen wilds."

The Chill Nymph clenched her fists and trembled once. Slowly though, she slumped with defeat, nodding to herself. "You're right, Drekthac. I was wrong about you."

"Come on now, lass. Out with you. What food should we wrap for the trip? How much water do you need? It's time you were free of us."

XxX

"It was the right decision, removing her from your life," Freydis commented upon Drekthac's return. "She would have made you soft, not through a change in your nature, but with hounding thoughts of every action that defied hers."

"We don't talk about her anymore," was the firm reply as Drekthac threw off his cloak onto one of his storage crates. Seeing his dining table empty, he raised an eyebrow. "Did you clean up for me?"

"Mention it to anyone, and your head will join Gardjon's." Ah, the vrykul woman.

Hiding his smile, he said, "I'm surprised you stayed though. The mead couldn't have been that good."

"I still await your answer. Shall I sponsor you in Valhalas?"

She sat in the chair at the far wall, fitted for her size. Her polearm was resting against the wall at her side. At the question though, Drekthac dragged over his shortened human chair from the table to in front of her and sat down. He hadn't had a good smoke in a long while. During moments like this, he missed the old pipe of tobacco.

If he entered the tournament, he would be locked into three paths. To win access to Ymirheim and take his place among the Ymirjar; to die in shame, forever banished in undeath to the Underhalls, where gods bless the one that slays him in a final glorious combat at the Underhalls tournament; or the third, to quit between rounds, not shamed, and honored for participating – but never allowed to compete again.

"I beat Gardjon, after years of sitting dulled his ability, but tell me again, Freydis... do you think I can win?"

The val'kyr gained a regal bearing where she sat. The lifted chin, her straightened spine, the whiteness of her body... With slow, deliberate meaning, she said, "Victory will not come easy, Dragon, even for you, but you have my vow that if you possess the same spirit there that you do down in the Underhalls, you _will_ win it all."

Hell, it might even be fun. "Alright then, darlin', I'll compete. I'm going to need full healing between rounds from you, and an honest smithy to keep my gear up. If someone's got a dagger pinning for me, I want to hear about it from you first, then dealt with."

A proud smile graced her face. "You will have what you need, but you must remember that this is not the Underhalls that bred you, where honor does not exist until only one is standing. Valhalas is a battle pit fought in honor first, then show. Those are rules you must abide to."

"Byjron-"

"Thane Byjron will never be Ymirjar. He knows this and does not care. He fights for show and cruelty, to satisfy his pleasures, and has been a blight upon this tournament since his awakening. He craves a challenge, and I expect you to shove your cock down his throat and choke him to death when you face him."

Drekthac barked a laugh, grabbing a goblet and filling it from the cask. "His time will come. But speaking of cocks, what say you to that bed yonder? I'm a godsdamn champion tonight, and I need to end it in a champion's way."

Freydis smiled again, this one different from before, but she shook her head and stood, grabbing her polearm from the wall. "You must first win Valhalas to receive a val'kyr." The way she purred the word, _receive_, sent pleasant shivers down his spine. He knew though that the val'kyr only served the Ymirjar. "I'll be waiting for you though, for the day you stand before the Val'kyr Halls. Baelin Drekthac."

She began to head for the door, now that her business with him was done. The brilliant wings of hers trailed her body, and he watched a white feather fall free and vanish from sight before it could hit the floor. As she passed him though, he stood from his chair, carelessly slapping her ass with a sharp crack between steps.

Hardly a second later something crashed into the back of his head, sending him reeling forward with a deep laugh. Stumbling into her chair, Drekthac held his head and watched her continue leaving unabated with a grin. Before she had the door open though, he sobered and leaned back, staring at her with his mind buzzing.

"Freydis," he called out. She stopped and turned, only her mouth visible under that face mask. "You told Leyanna the good of your... ascension. What is the bad?"

After a few seconds, the val'kyr sighed. She turned to face him and leaned her back against his door. "The price of ascension... I gave up my physical body for one of spirit. I am tied to this plane by duty now... By will, that of my master that sleeps on his Frozen Throne. I may never leave here, except to death's infinite void."

Drekthac's hand slowly lowered from his head as his eyes went wide. "He made you a slave, bound tighter than any collar."

He noticed the pop of her knuckles from her grip over her polearm, but she gave a single, curt nod. "We in the Val'kyr Halls continue to perform our duties, to raise Ymirjar champions and serve them, and I do not regret this existence. It is only the idea of shackles over my soul that I rail against."

Brow furrowing, Drekthac asked, "Is there anything that can be done about it?"

His one friend stared at him, that strong-jawed mouth firm but without expression. Without visible eyes, it was difficult to understand her emotions or thoughts. Finally, she admitted, "There may be a way, but first you must win Valhalas before we ever discuss it."

"Sex, answers, Ymirjar – you are going to bribe me into doing something stupid." Drekthac sighed, rubbing his forehead once. The rough bumps along his palms reminded him of the new scars. He pushed himself out of the chair. "I'll walk you out."

XxX

Once Freydis had departed, Drekthac proceeded to Jotunheim's southern hall. Some hours had passed since his victory, between the feast and getting Leyanna distant enough, but the night was far from over. While still walking, to his right he noticed a pyre burning. It reminded him of Gardjon – that could have been the dead man – but in a village of this size, and on this night, more than one death was to be expected.

He noticed two small humanoid shapes get thrown into the flame, followed by a woman that walked in freely. Whoever the man was, he had been rich.

Puffing out a breath into the icy air, Drekthac turned away, spotting the bright hall as he drew near. The wide entry lacked a door, letting out the firelight, music, and buzz within, but in passing the threshold, he was glad to see the musky heat remained well trapped between so many bodies. His entrance was easily spotted – standing at half the height of the average male – and several bellowed greetings at him. The noise caught the attention of the rest, and Drekthac found the women at the far wall looking up with sudden interest.

One of them was who he came to see.

"Bretha!" Drekthac shouted merrily, already forgetting the dark conversations of before.

"The name is Angild, Whelp," the brunette huffed, crossing her arms before impressive chest as he approached

"And you don't know my name either, wench," Drekthac remarked, smiling as her eyes flashed dangerously. Her lip tugged in amusement. "You're looking boring here anyways. Join me at the fire, and I'll see what drinks they've got for the night's champion."

"Oh, bored already of your blue horse meat?" Angild asked hotly, even as she followed him immediately. She wore a tight leather bodice and no cloak, along with a looser skirt, dark as her hair, that hung just above her knees. Her boots were black, though everything was washed orange in the firelight and shadows.

"They break before I'm through, unlike a good, thick vrykul." He thumped her rear with his palm, like a stone under cloth. The benches around the fire were of course entirely occupied, but with a grunt, Drekthac seized a man in the middle of dawdling his own catch and clean threw him off the bench, to slide across the stone floor stupidly.

With a furious roar, the man scrambled to his feet, searching for his assailant, but he found Drekthac waiting patiently at his seat. The vrykul hesitated, and knowing he couldn't win a brawl, laughed good-naturedly and pointed at Drekthac. With a smile and a nod, Drekthac took a seat and shooed the woman towards the man, though his submission to the Dragon would cost him of her.

Angild sat herself beside him, letting his arm encircle her back, while Drekthac circled his hand up and shouted, "Get me some mead, before I need to find it!"

Unlike the Underhalls, it was improper for the men to take brazenly their women in the public hall, so Drekthac kept his touches and affections tame with the night's catch. They sang and drank and cheered, until the day's events finally caught up to Drekthac, even past his healing. Pulling his head from between Angild's clothed breasts, he tilted back his mug to drink the last of his vrykul-sized mug, then smashed it against the ground as the crowd and Angild cheered for him.

"Come on, you pretty hag, I'm takin' you home," Drekthac growled throatily to her, burying his hand into her brown locks and taking her lips. Bright blue eyes blinked at the gesture before she smiled against him, and they stood up to another cheer. Drekthac turned her to the door and gave her rump another slap, flashing a lewd grin and a parting to his drinking celebrators.

Back at his house, Drekthac divested the bedwarmer of her clothes and tossed her naked body on his large bed. She made a pleased sound at the show of strength, rising up to her knees to watch with eager eyes as he stripped himself. He in turn stared at her, fully exposed for him now.

A healthy, meaty frame, with big, fat breasts hanging on her chest. His eye roved the big and dark areola, already stiffened into firm points, then down the smooth stomach to her dark curled womanhood. Clearly she had prepared herself this night, smelling clean and with the dark shadow around her eyes down perfectly. She had trimmed down her bush enough for him to make out the small protruding labia from her puffy netherlips.

_Some nymphae,_ he noticed approvingly.

Once the last of his clothing was off, Angild's eager expression waned as she studied him. Without insult, she commented, "So humans are... proportionate."

Unphased, Drekthac continued his approach to her. "There's a reason ill rumor hasn't spread about my sexual exploits, darlin'. That's just where you satisfy the champion. I've got other ways to set you off." Her eyebrows rose as her eyes regained an intrigued spark. "Now lie back."

XxX

A feminine cry pierced the icy, howling air of the night. It's source was Leyanna, panting in rage and frustration with her fist still planted against the icy boulder. As she drew her hand back after the punch, tears spilled from her eyes – but they weren't at the pain now throbbing at her knuckles, dripping crimson blood into the snow at her hooves. She thought of Drekthac, her human captor that had set her free, and his persistence after his bloody lifestyle.

Sniveling once, she cradled her injured hand and continued walking. Her violent explosion surprised her though. She knew better than to attack inanimate things as a vent for frustration, yet there she was, with her knuckles bleeding at the mistake. That damn man, look at the influence he had spread over her.

With a sigh, she remembered their final words, as they stood several miles away from Jotunheim. Her own bloody request. _"If you must fight that tournament, Drek, promise me one thing. Promise me you will make that thane pay for what he did."_

He had turned cold and displeased, clearly at her advocating violence. But he forgot that nymphs were forest protectors, and they too fought and killed when it was necessary. Such a monster did not deserve to live. Still, the human had bowed his head and made his promise. She had an image of a great dragon tearing apart a vrykul with its fangs, mauling it around, and knew this man would do no less to Byjron.

Alone now, Leyanna continued south, away from Drekthac, with tears still falling. She knew she needed to forget that man, that the chapter was closed and she had gotten out very lucky, but for that brief time, she had lived there with him and been made a part of that life. She would even like to call him her friend, violent and barbaric as he was. He had never treated her wrong.

And now he couldn't be expelled from her thoughts. She remembered drinking with him, cursing with him, and his endless references to beds and mating. Baelin Drekthac. He was going to fight a deadly tournament at the word of some undead Scourge woman, maybe die a horrible death at some thane's hand, and she wouldn't be there to even see his fate. She hated this.

Her sisters would be of no help either. They would encourage her to a snowball fight, to prance about and babble about furry critters and butterflies. All fun and innocence, blinded to the violent world around them until it was shoved into their faces. They would not care about Drekthac or his fate. "Damn it..."

More tears flowed then as she realized her change. She would be shunned for cursing too. Leyanna was no longer eager to return to her sisters. Was that even her place anymore? Where would she rather be? Back with Drekthac? With terrible vividness, she recalled standing beside Freydis in the Underhalls, surrounded by dirty vrykul doing dirty things with women and men, her ears throbbing with pain at the noise and feeling the ground rumbles from their motions. The musky, rancid smells, the scary looks in their eyes. That tightness in her chest as she could not see Drekthac fighting below, but listening quietly for every detail Freydis mentioned to her.

Is that what she would ever want to return to?

Her feet slowed to a stop. Standing in the snow, Leyanna's body trembled and her fists tightened. She needed a hug right now. She debated throwing herself against a nearby boulder and crying herself to sleep, but the old helpless act disgusted her. Instead, she asked herself:

"What do I do?"

But even as the words left her lips, her eyes picked up something moving in the snow around her. Creeping through the shadows. Drekthac had promised the vrykul hunting parties would still be at Jotunheim, celebrating. Quietly, she reached back and withdrew a spear from the pack roped to her horse body. Drekthac had found one a good size for her, for protection on the journey.

There was a high pitched, raspy chuckle, and the shape peeled itself from the shadow to drag itself forward. Catching sight of it in the moonlight now, Leyanna's eyes went wide and her mouth opened for a silent gasp of horror.

* * *

AN: And thus, the first real chapter of the story. Here is where pacing really needs to start counting.


	4. Chapter 2: The Exilee

Chapter 2

_The Exilee_

* * *

X Ranger X

He couldn't stop moving. The forest betrayed him, whispered secrets about him to the rangers. Watch the ground. No snapping twigs, no compressing grass, no crunching leaves. Cannot leave a trail. Eyes up, movement. At his side, the wind rustling leaves. Now left! Nothing.

There was a sound. Thomas compressed the shadows tighter around him, backing away even before checking back. A large bush, growing towards the trunk of a heavy tree. Was it an animal in there? The wind? A ranger trap? He crouched and watched the ground, holding his breath. The shadows did not distort, the branches did not bend unnaturally to hide. He watched for the compression, waiting anxiously.

A moment passed, and another. He silently released his air and drew in another breath. Unthinking, he lightly pressed against the soil with his boot, then stepped back and pivoted his weight, smashing a few blades of grass, before turning forward and stepping just hard enough to leave an impossibly light path. Only a ranger would be able to pick it up.

A fox trail. It was time to hunt.

Thomas left the trail short and broke free of it, pacing to the nearest tree and crouching among its roots, melded perfectly into the shadows. Even light traveled through his visage, like a mage's invisibility. He his hand upon the smooth trunk, feeling the cool bark under his palm. The forest hummed with excitement at the presence of the elves, rejoiced at their gentle touch upon it.

Thomas waited, reading the tree. He couldn't manipulate it with magic like elves could, to hide him or tell him where others were, but he could observe. The forest was alive, had ancient emotions, and he had learned how to tell them apart.

There! The tree's branches swayed with a breeze, the leaves hissing with so much noise, but Thomas noticed its buzz. The young races were so quick and hasty, so unlike the trees, and it riled up their slow responses. It responded to the presence of a nearby elf. Thomas let go of the tree and worked at completely removing his presence, then studied the ground with a critical eye.

A shadow touched the ground at the right. Thomas knew the sun, high to the left, and found the source of the mark. A slender silhouette, colored as the trees were. A wind came and swayed the leaves, and with the movement of color, the shape vanished. Holding his breath, Thomas watched the ground yet again, knowing the elf must come down to better read his trail.

Like a snake, he remained coiled with tension, ready to strike with all ferocity. His eyes watched the whole floor, looking for any step, any mark. It came down the front, the slightest jounce of a long grass – a single mistake.

Thomas struck, hurling a smooth rock from the ground toward the grass. It passed through the air harmlessly, but there was a sudden dodge, a hint of a shape as the elf stumbled aside, and it turned to face the landing of the rock with the sudden noise. Too late it realized to be looking at the source first, and there was a hitch of breath when Thomas thumped the shoulder with his hand.

The woman breathed out, falling into full visibility. It was Sarrine, who had proposed the game, breathing hard with her tension leaving now. With wide eyes she beheld his shadow, and she whispered in Thalassian, _"A fox trail... I knew you were human, so I didn't..."_ She laughed, softly in respect to not alert others.

So Thomas first thought. His ear cocked, then he turned and sprinted forward, to his tree, and hissed at a shadow, _"I see you!"_ An elf pealed itself from the shrub, grinning – Loraeoth, her friend. _A team,_ Thomas realized. The concept was foreign, from his years in a game of only two.

They saluted each other, then hid themselves and sprinted apart. Thomas left Sarrine to find her own way out.

Hiding in the small branches, Thomas managed to catch one more ranger, until succumbing to a blunted arrow. Picked at thirty yards away, completely unaware of his hunter. Hefting the arrow, Thomas nodded at the shooter, letting go of his shadows entirely. The man nodded back, threw his bow over his shoulder, then sprinted away, falling from sight again in the first step.

Back at his perch, Thomas found the rangers abuzz with whispers. He heard from snippets that each was discussing him. He paid the conversations no mind though, thinking only of his success in the game. Against ten real rangers – more had decided to come at his inclusion – he had caught three and spotted two others, even in a forest. He hadn't a lick of ranger ability, yet he had avoided their hunts and lost only in a step of recklessness, a mistake made due his years away from the game.

He would like to play again with his old friend.

"_-ask him. Ask him!"_ a sharp voice was demanding, in the song of the elven tongue. All the others had fallen silent, listening in, as Thomas finally sat again on his branch and folded his arms.

There was a sigh. It was silver haired woman that asked finally, _"So you are a master of the bow and forest, can overcome the average rangers at their own game, speak Thalassian, and hold secret to your past of training. What else can we assume other than a trained human? If you had the magic to use our abilities, it is no question you would be a Ranger Lord."_

"_I was never taught,"_ Thomas repeated, but he held up his hand haltingly when both the silverhead and redhead opened their mouths. _"Not even the tongue we speak in now. I once had a friend though, indeed a high elven ranger, but he strictly adhered to the code against training humans, especially me who had no talent for magic."_

They waited in silence for him to continue. Thomas picked out another ranger approaching, defeated, leaving only two still left. _"I was young, and we would play games. Always, I would watch him, study him, and later I would try to imitate him. I picked up a loose grasp of Thalassian from listening to him, and it was later that we switched to speaking it and he cleaned up my speech. Our games in the forest were always impossible though. To shoot targets, to play a game of touch, to hunt down fox trails. He would win each time, but I would watch what he did, and over time I learned._

"_I have no doubt he meant for me to learn, but he was oath-bound not to teach me, so he didn't. Everything I know is from observing him, what I learned from my Rogue Master, and my years of experience after. He broke no oaths, and I was never trained."_

The light-hearted blond male was in the midst of pulling himself higher up the tree, and as he climbed, he said, _"Well frankly, Swiftblade, I say fuck the oaths. If you had the mana, I would train you the rest myself. To me, and to the Sunfury, you are a ranger."_

The redhead seemed a traditional girl, Thomas noticed, and the proposal clearly riled her up. With her green eyes glaring, she started, _"Farron, you swore-"_

"_High elven oaths,"_ he interrupted, waving her back. _"Ranger-General Windrunner would not waste such fantastic potential regarding Nathanos Marris. You're telling me you would simply on the _pride_ of a nation in which we are no longer even a _species_ of? You saw the children, Meyanna. They were born blood elf."_

The name sent a strange pulse through Thomas. Nathanos, the human Ranger Lord. The man had been the envy of his youth. Trained by Sylvanas Windrunner herself, born with fantastic potential and magic – simply handed everything that Thomas worked himself to tears for. Older now, Thomas was no longer bothered by the thought of the man. Perhaps he had matured or maybe it was that all his effort had paid off.

"_He was killed you know, in the Scourge attack,"_ Thomas told them.

The silver haired girl blinked owlishly, before straightening in realization. _"Then that means..."_

"_Yes, he was raised undead,"_ he continued, voice flat. _"Nathanos Blightcaller. Of course, his mentor returned for him. He champions Sylvanas now, for the Forsaken – your allies, mind you, if you rejoin your people."_

One man, long black hair and high up, muttered, _"They would not accept the Sunfury, after what we have done."_

Thomas glanced up at him, as the other rangers turned sullen. _"Your people have been split by civil war and lay devastated, and since then Sylvanas forced the remnants north to slay the Lich King. The assault was successful, but the blood elves are so hurt, they would welcome this force gladly."_

The elves remained silent, contemplating their choices and future. Thomas had told himself not to get involved, but the conversation, with the rangers at least, relieved him. Too many years alone. A life of killing and subtly shaping the future, changed now to a bringer of hope and deliverance for a whole people. They called him "Deliverer" now? He didn't know what to think of it, but he was now clearly involved.

"_Swiftblade, forgive my curiosity, but is that high elf you knew the reason why you came back for us? I am still wondering why you would save us, your enemies, while in the end we might just bolster the ranks of Horde – also your enemy,"_ Farron asked cautiously. All eyes set upon him, even the two that were just returning from the Game of Foxes, having just caught the question.

Thomas' lip turned up at the sight of the winner. The one that had shot him. The blood elf, with his long blond hair, was one of the only ones to still sport a beard after the journey began. It was an odd look on one of the regal elves, but he carried the wiry mass gladly, grooming and waxing it. Noticing his eye upon him, the man nodded up at Thomas, and Thomas nodded back.

Remembering the question, he mentioned absently, in Common, "That is part of it, yes." He left it there, and as the rangers began to clamor up further questions, he slipped from his branch and began making his way down. "Go back to... _Return to the feast; eat until your strength returns and sing until your spirits match. We'll stay here for a few days, before the long march all the way back."_

As he touched the ground, Thomas tensed when a burst of bright light enveloped him. It cleared nearly instantly, but his body was reluctant to ease itself. The ache of his burns was gone though, and his other unspoken wounds too. He looked up to see the girl with the blond ponytail smiling. She said, _"Next time, we'll play without you handicapped."_

XxX

The watchmen had orders to wake him in five hours to cover the rest of the night. Thomas relaxed himself once he was inside his tent. His cloak was unbuckled and tossed to his bag, and he set upon divesting the rest of his armor. Five hours of sleep again; he was pushing himself hard for these elves, to keep the weary from further burden.

When he was down to just his pants, he let himself fall onto his bed roll and gathered his blankets around him. He recalled the names he had heard today: Loraeoth and Sarrine from the trio of friends, the cheerful Farron and stoic, traditional Meyanna, and bearded Jerath who won the Game of Foxes. Five of the thirteen rangers, and one of which hadn't bothered showing up to try and meet him. He would keep his guard up for her, just in case.

Sighing, Thomas realized his mind was still too riled to sleep just yet. During his return to camp, he had been met with cheers and praise from the elves, calling out his new titles that none seemed to wholly agree on. Swiftblade, the Shadow, Deliverer, King – he heard it all. However, disregarding his introductory words – or perhaps not caring in their high spirits – they had approached him, asking what banner they should raise as they marched in his name.

Once the shock had passed, Thomas told them not to march in his name, but in their own. The Sunfury, with their allegiance to Kael'thas, were no more, so they were to take those sigils down and raise empty white ones. They marched not as an army now, but a peaceful force – so forfeit conflict with the banner – but also, they are to have a blank slate. At the end of the exodus, they could decide what they wanted to become.

Sober salutes. Thomas had expected mindless cheering, perhaps a dampening of their cheer after the day's victory, but not the way those gathered around him had saluted with fists to their chests and bowed their heads. Yes, they were soldiers, but... The blood elves immediately dispersed, presumably to get out those banners that very night.

After a short dinner alone, Thomas had passed his word to the volunteers for night watch, and now he lied in bed, still with the day's events in his head. The forest was fairly long too. When they finally marched again, they could camp for a night at the edge, just before the actual push back into rugged and exotic terrain.

Turning on his side in search of a more comfortable position, Thomas listened to the buzz of the camp still going on out there. He couldn't help his ears, picking up whispers from dozens of yards away, or the quiet moans of those coupling in the night. He wasn't surprised to see after so long isolated, many of the trapped elves had taken up relationships with their close comrades. Footsteps stampeded up and down the camp, even if just four friends at fifty yards, and some sporadic steps he could tell to be the stumble of drunks.

He enjoyed the sounds, of renewed life in the lost elves.

It wasn't long before his muscles ached at being turned on his side, and he laid back again, still listening. It was because of this he heard the soft padding so close to his tent, and getting closer. Just outside the flap, then slowed to a stop there. Tension crept back over him then as he realized, and his eyes watched the lining. Fingers tucked behind the edge, pulling it aside for a slender shape to step inside.

A woman dressed in a wispy gown didn't make the most resourceful assassin, leaving him to wonder at other possibilities. As she stood there watching, green eyes gleaming faintly yet clearly in the dark, he decided against waiting for her to get close before striking out. He pulled himself up and let the blankets fall to his lip, meeting her stare with one of his own.

"_I heard you spoke our tongue,"_ she whispered.

_Oh dear,_ Thomas thought, nearly shivering. Her voice was sweet and feminine, accented perfectly by the smooth song of Thalassian. It invoked thoughts, suggestion, just by the sound, to any man that would hear its seduction. It was no help he had always admired the immortal elven women.

"_Indeed I can,"_ he returned in kind, ensuring he didn't struggle over his own tongue at the rush of thoughts. _"Who are you though? Why have you come?"_

Staring at him with her curiously illuminated eyes, she continued softly, _"I am a woman carrying thanks. My name or identity is of no importance to tonight."_

"_And your reason for coming?"_

"_To give thanks."_ There was a whisper of cloth, and Thomas' eyes caught the gown on its way down as it slid from her body. Shy in tone but earnest in resolve, she added, _"If you'll have me."_

The dark cloaked much of the details, even to his eyes, but still he stared with surprised eyes at her pale body. His tongued seemed to turn into cotton in his mouth. Not trusting himself to speak with it, he pulled the blankets from his waist and stood up, watching her eyes follow his movements until she was looking upward to see his face.

Those glowing orbs called him in, until he was just before her, and he slowly took one of her small hands in his. Calluses on the palm – smooth, no tear lines, in the pattern of bow at finger tips and hilt at the palms. He wasn't surprised to find her a warrior though; all of these blood elves were. It was with the hand that he led to the bed, her eyes never leaving his.

His hand came to her waist to guide her down, but he stopped at the contact with her skin. Freshly cleaned and bathed, soft and warm. Her body was lean. He found his hand tracing around, craving the touch, and her muscles twitched as his hand passed over them. The slightest fragrance surrounded her, something exotic as the elves were. Even on this blasted planet, leagues from civilization, and in an army's march, he was sure her hair would be like silk, if he were to touch it too.

Her back came to his sheets, and she arched her chest against him as he followed her down. He couldn't look away from her intoxicating eyes. His hand left her back and fell upon her taut stomach, sliding up until the inevitable swell of her bosom. The elf allowed no hesitation, taking his hand in hers and pressing it to her slender breast. Warm and soft, with a firm pebble centered against his palm.

Their lips met, hers moist and full and his dry and chapped. The imperfection rang against Thomas' mind, and he turned away, feeling inadequate. Elves were more than he was worthy of. But then with a soft touch to his cheek, she turned his head back and kissed him, gleaming eyes locked onto his, with her hand dragging against his back. Guilty desire swelled, until he was kissing her back again.

A time came when she rolled him to his back and pushed him down, and he watched in the dark as she leaned over his pants and worked getting them open, her eyes fixed upon the task. The green orbs were the only thing clear inside the tent, the only thing with color, and something in his mind itched at it. Was it a gleam, like the reflection of a cat's... or was it a glow?

His mind split with a memory, torn away from the present with this woman in his bed, and he saw his friend and mentor. The high elf, readying himself to demonstrate ranger magic. The man had a playful smirk, standing a full foot taller than young Thomas. With a wink of his blue eye, he asked in the Common tongue, _"Would you say you know this forest well, Young Jack? You have the identifiers all mapped out?"_

Thomas, staring curiously with his head tilted slightly, gave a reluctant nod. _"Aye, sir. Well enough to never lose my place."_

The elf laughed and muttered something in Thalassian, the fascinating elf tongue – where words were like lyrics of a song. Turning to the forest beyond Thomas, the ranger commanded a phrase, something rougher than an elf tongue which he recognized as magic, like the sorceresses used, and the clear elven blue eyes took in a sudden bright light, glowing with magical power. Thomas watched the show in awe, hearing the rustle of wind through trees and a vague sense of something happening in the forest. Green light danced upon the elf's upturned hand, vanishing back inside his two fingertips.

With a smile and eyes still glowing, his friend said, _"Then look around you, Young Jack, and tell me you know this forest."_ So Thomas looked, only to find the trees all wrong! The oak was left of the fir, and the twin trunk was now yards away from the flat boulder. His markers, his guidance, were changed and moved; would the root hole of the fallen ancient still be a hundred paces left of the oak? Or the sapling cluster still that way from the fir?

Thomas felt such doubt then in the forest – his forest, which he loved and knew so well. It would be later that he was taught how to overcome the displacement trick, with movement and spotting of other markers, and years still from when he no longer needed markers at all, able to dive into any unknown wood like it was his old home. But what he remembered most starkly was the glow of his friend's eyes after the magical display, where they would stay illuminated with faint light up to hours after, depending on the power of the spell.

The memory ended with the sudden recollection of the present, like waking from a dream, and Thomas saw the woman finally open his pants, where his hardness was waiting eagerly. Taking in a breath, his hand stopped hers from invading inside the opening, and with the other tilted her chin up to look at him. He saw the green eyes again, and on closer study detected it as a glow.

And knowing these blood elves that he was rescuing, he knew the reason for it too. "Bloodgem," he grunted, and the flinch confirmed it. She had doped herself up on the mana gem, hence the green glow from her feeding. "You are here on bloodgem lust." A side-effect of the crystals.

Near the end, Kael'thas had gone mad once he was a part of the Legion. To ensure the continued loyalty of his broken people, he began to reward them with bloodgems, a euphoric red crystal native to the present Netherstorm that they could feed on to sate their mana-lust (only to inspire another). Highly addictive, many blood elves found themselves deep into its snare, leaving them unwilling to leave even if they wanted. Not all of the remaining Sunfury had left with this current exodus, away from the bloodgem rich lands, and Thomas had been sure some of them that had come would have stocked up a supply before following.

The pale haired woman lifted herself from his lap to lay atop him, where their eyes were level. Touching his cheek with her palm, she said, "That is irrelevant to why I am here, Deliverer. Will it spoil my thanks?" In a lower, sultry tone, she continued in smooth Thalassian, _"Or shall we continue?"_ Her other hand came to his stomach and set to dragging downward, daring him to stop her.

Thomas wanted to, having an especial loathing for bloodgems and their effects, but as his mind hesitated in a decision, waiting anxiously for her hand to meet its destination, he found his answer too long in coming. Her hand entered his pants and a moment later encircled his hardness. As it did, her lips met his once again, sealing the decision.

XxX

Everyday they played the Game of Foxes, with Thomas and the elves improving each time as they fixed their mistakes and refamiliarized themselves with their trade. Again the ranger abilities put Thomas at a disadvantage, and again he recalled his techniques for overcoming them, even winning the third match. As their skills sharpened, the game grew longer, the fifth one lasting eight hours.

A certain comradeship formed between them, especially as Thomas finally accepted the treacherous way of teams. Only one could stand as victorious, but two together could get further before competing against each other. When the faux teams broke apart was always dangerous; losing constant track of your partner was the quickest way to a loss. But it also taught him about the individual elves he teamed with – which honored their partnership until the end and which back-stabbed at the first opportunity.

The thirteenth ranger joined them starting at the second game. A woman that reminded Thomas strongly of the one that had visited his tent. Her clear bloodgem addiction was the first hint, but he found himself often comparing her shape against his mind, her features, and despite himself, he was often left staring at her. Genveera, the Swan, was her name, short in stature and pale for a blood elf, with golden hair and persistently illuminated eyes from her addiction.

He came to know the rest of the rangers too. There was Velanee, who was she with silver hair. Saela, the ponytail sporting blond, who mastered the healing ways of the Light. The three close friends were the spiked blond Loraeoth, Sarrine, and lastly Jaden, with black hair and friendly disposition. The mischievous blond Farron, who fought tradition, with the redhead Meyanna, who spoke so ardently for it. The bearded Jerath, most skilled in ranger ways, and black haired Dor'rath with his quick tongue and quick hands, closest among them to a fellow rogue. Flaerie was a quiet and reserved woman, refused any teams despite her many loses, though she was a kind of cute with her short brown hair. Deynora, a curly haired redhead who was also a magister, and finally Jon'ah, a rather selfish seeming man who made his treachery in the game far too obvious.

Velanee, Meyanna, Farron, Jerath, and Genveera had each been part of the Bloodwarders, and the leadership and ability showed in their decisions and actions. They had been among the first to volunteer to work under him in leading the march. The others bowed deference to them too – so Thomas had thought, but he later found that some behaved very independently from the rest, like Deynora the magister and Flaerie.

While Thomas formed a close circle with the rangers and the demand on the blood elves was little, most of the other officers were generally ignored. There were several Arch-Mages, two surviving Blood Knights, many standard Bloodwarders, and a captain that had managed to keep his company alive through the genocide that followed the Alliance and Horde's victories through Netherstorm. They kept him updated of their increasing supply of provisions, the repairs that the tailors were making to the tents, blankets, and clothing, and the generally raised condition of their people.

Craftsmen offered to build carts and wagons to ease the carrying burdens and let the travel-wounded and weary have a place to rest. Thomas had first disagreed to it, wanting to be quick and mobile – especially thinking of how bogged they would be in Zangarmarsh without the use of roads. He was reminded though of how ingrained the arcane was with blood elves, and the craftsmen demonstrated near weightless wagons that needed no driver. The man who offered himself as the senior craftsman promised that he could bridge any Zangarmarsh gap without any delay for them; he had experience there from marching under Kael'thas.

Otherwise, Thomas remained apart from the camp or with the rangers. He noticed without comment the raised, empty banners and the way most elves had scrubbed their uniforms clean and wore them proudly again. His concerns were of the forest and the rangers during the rest, second only to the safety and rejuvenation of the blood elves, not their regard for him.

For the final day, they played variations of the Game of Foxes. Favorited was Little War, where the rangers split into two set teams to compete for an objective. Victory was determined through assassination of the enemy leader (the Shadow or the Swan), acquisition of the enemy's marker, or the complete annihilation of a team under the Game of Foxes rule.

It was a game of ranger warfare, guerrilla by nature, stylized after their usage in combat – similar to a spar between warriors or a theft game for rogues. Immediately Thomas came to love the variation, and he wished that they were in a time of peace and could play on. Played against Genveera, Thomas learned just what kind of highly tactical mind she possessed, as well as the honorable stance she employed in the game. His tent visit and suspicions were not forgotten either.

At early nightfall the final game of Little War ended, in Thomas' favor. He had performed the assassination of the Swan, dropping the rogue shadow-stealth behind her with his dagger at her throat. In that moment of triumph though, he had caught her scent, the very same perfume as the one from the tent. He made no comment of the revelation, but when they all retired for the night, the thought wouldn't leave his mind the whole walk back.

The blood elves within the camp saluted him and bowed their heads, many at least. Thomas paid the reactions no mind, merely finding the wagon they had loaded all the spare food on and taking from it a hearty meal. It had been a long, active day. He found many of the other rangers doing the same, joking as they made their ways to the fires.

One did not follow the rest, instead stepping after him. "Swiftblade," she called, hesitant. He knew the voice to belong to Velanee and turned to find her holding a similar leaf wrapping to his, standing alone now. "I was wondering if we could talk."

They settled for a low branch at the outskirts of the camp, away from the bright fires and loud noise. Although it was an Outland night, with brilliant lights and whole planets lit like moons above them, the spot was still dark with the tree canopy above them blocking the light. Beams of nightlight speared through whatever gaps it could, illuminating various motes and dust in long shafts.

Thomas enjoyed spots like this, out of sight from the crowds he was responsible for. As a ranger, Velanee clearly did not mind – in fact preferred – a seat in a tree, rather than on the flat ground. As they worked at opening their leaf wraps, he considered the silver haired woman. She had been one of the Bloodwarders to immediately volunteer to assist in leading the hundreds of elves that followed him, back then emaciated and dead-eyed as the rest. Only a few days since then, the sickly frame remained on her and most other elves, but they were improving both in shape and vitality.

On the ridge behind Forge Camp: Anger, when he had asked for rangers to serve as the distraction, she had boldly stood and stripped away her plate armor and volunteered there too, before the others like Jerath and Meyanna followed suit. He found her dependable. In the Game of Foxes, she preferred traps and hiding over active seeking, and in Little War under his command, she was second to Dor'rath in stealing the objective but best served in defense.

He had no idea of her opinion on his abilities, other than showing no prejudice to his race, but like Genveera, he saw her as honorable in conduct.

She spoke finally: "There are whispers among the camp of taking you as Ranger-General, at least until we are reunited with our people at Silvermoon City. I'm inclined to agree."

Thomas had suspected it, from the way the blood elves were starting to regard him. The news that he spoke fluent Thalassian had spread like a wildfire too, and with it changed the general opinion of him as if he were one of their own. Even when they had been high elves allied with the humans, none but the closest friends bothered learning the elven tongue.

"You would be wrong to do it," he told her, also in Common. She looked over and began to say something, but his hand stopped her. _"Listen first."_ Just a quick Thalassian phrase, then, "The Ranger-General is the military leader of the you elves. I'm a soldier, I can fight and kill and do so very well, but I haven't studied war. I don't have all the strategies of large combat or a mind that knows how to handle the logistics and needs of an army. I can lead a band of rangers, but not any large force."

The dark skinned woman thought his words over, then returned softly, "You are all we have. All of our leaders were killed in the war. The Bloodwarders, the Arch-Mages, we were senior to the common footmen and officer at most. Even the Blood Knights, the elite among us Bloodwarders, reported to Commander Sarannis."

"Do you need to be an army?" Thomas asked instead. He bounced his apple in his hand. "The world is a harsh and dangerous place, and I know everyone here was a soldier under Kael'thas, but can't you be done with it? You should be more focused on getting back home, to your people and hopefully remaining family, not who will lead you next. I'm only here to guide you out safely, not take command."

Velanee watched him take a bite, silent. After a moment, she said quietly, "Some need a banner above their head, to take responsibility for their actions and lead them through their lives. Once through the portal, if someone doesn't step into the place of leadership, most won't even know how to cross the thousands of miles back home. They have no sense of survival – only life in the army."

"Don't make it public knowledge, but I've got coin. Enough to buy out a few towns of their carrying gryphons and get most of you home without issue, assuming everyone has zero silver from soldier wages. Otherwise, the money can be pooled to get the rest back too."

"Do not forget why we march now rather than fly, Swiftblade. Remember who we are," Velanee reminded.

"_For shame,"_ Thomas huffed in Thalassian. "I'd forgotten you were Sunfury. The Horde windriders would be glad to take the gold off your hands though. They are your allies now."

"_You make it sound too good to be true, Thomas,"_ she sighed, briefly smiling for him. "You are far too kind, no matter your reason. What is your plan though? Set your name on our histories with your deliverance, then go back to your human cities and forest to live out in peace? Is there a place for us that are not interested in returning to Silvermoon?"

_What is she suggesting?_ Thomas wondered, speechless. He tried keeping it from showing on his face. _Is she asking to continue with me?_ He hadn't imagined such a scenario beforehand, where this journey had any lasting impact on his life. _Why?_

Looking back at her finally, this silver haired elf who watched him with eyes of clear green, filled with the inhuman beauty that elves were, he opened his mouth – only to be drown out by another voice: _"So here is where you've hidden yourselves! Shadow, Velanee."_

Both looked up to see Sarrine staring at them. The whip of a blond was a lively girl, near reckless and wild for an elf, though presently she was absent of her friends Loraeoth and Jaden. Grabbing a hanging branch of a nearby tree, she swung herself up in two jumps and reclined on a thick one with her back to the trunk.

Once settled, she looked down with a sheepish smile and added, _"Hopefully I'm not interrupting anything. Just thought I'd hang out before tomorrow's march."_

"_No, it is fine. I was done anyways,"_ Velanee returned, also in Thalassian, and she dropped the couple feet back to the ground, throwing aside her leaves. With hardly another glance, she began to walk away. 'Stalk' away might be a better description, Thomas thought, watching the deliberate step over step rangers used in forests to minimize their presence. It appeared much like a cat's prowl, and he wondered at her reason for it.

"Velanee," he called out despite himself. She stopped in a pool of nightlight, turning back in an illuminated and radiant way. The green of her eyes was visible, but not like the glow from a lingering feed. "I'll keep it in mind."

He didn't say more. The silver haired woman seemed especially beautiful in that lighting as she regarded him silently for a second, then nodded once and continued away. The image of her and the conversation remained in his mind awhile longer, even as he chatted with the flirty Sarrine. The time with the blond served to remind him just how long it had been since he'd had relations with a woman.

They retired in good humor to their separate tents. However, the last thing Thomas needed the night before the march was endless thoughts plaguing him between Genveera, Velanee, and Sarrine. It was hours before he managed to push them out enough to sleep.

XxX

The force of over five hundred blood elves that marched out of the forest of Jagged Ridge was not the same ragtag band of survivors that had marched into it. They moved with purpose, organization – taking and giving orders in a still forming chain of command. Thomas held the lead position, but it was not with a faint hope that they looked to him, but respect and deference. No longer walking shambling along like refuges, they formed ranks and marched around the supply wagons.

White banners waved in the wind, raised high by the once again proud elves. Proud even of the banner that conceded defeat to any combat – because it was what Thomas told them to bear, because it was his banner for them. The rangers that Thomas came to know took the place of an unnamed honor guard, without his permission, and stood separately from the officers that he had for commanding the force. Meyanna, Farron, Genveera, Velanee, and Jerath took the position of both.

At the southern edge of the forest, they stopped to consider the path around the mountain range that separated Blade's Edge from Zangarmarsh. The two options were over or through, but while the later was easiest for their wagons, it was well known that the tunnels were crawling with wolves and giant spiders.

After finding no clear path between the nearby peaks, Thomas decided to clear out the caves while Jerath watched over the troops. Some of the officers and rangers argued that with their numbers and the rangers on guard, not to mention they were a full army, they should save the time and march through immediately, slaying what posed resistance or threat as they went.

Thomas restated his promise that not an elf would die under his command and that he would take no risks. When they tried to press, he curtly silenced them with a reminder to never question his commands, or they could leave now if they had a better way. He left them blushing shamefully, with half the rangers quickly following him into the tunnels with their bows ready and quivers full.

With their quick speed, it took only a few hours to clear the way. Thomas was also using the time to draw out a map for his followers to prevent getting lost within. There was no filtered light or crystals to help them, meaning he would need the mages and priests to conjure up light for them. By how the spiders lurked and ambushed them from the shadows and utter darkness, he was vindicated for his decision, to which Genveera and Velanee were quick to announce to the waiting blood elves after.

The march passed smoothly and quietly under the mountains. Although crammed in tight corridors with consuming darkness, the blood elves remained poised and confident for the two hours in passing. They smelled the marshes of their destination long before their elven eyes caught first sight of outside light. Donvorei, the head craftsman, made his way up to Thomas then. As was discussed, his team left with several guards ahead of the troops to begin an easy pathway over the marshes. Priests made rounds of reminding elves of the dangers of drinking the stagnant marsh water and importance of keeping any wounds and cuts clean, in the disease ridden swamplands.

The sky was blue and the air musky outside the tunnel. Mushrooms larger than any tree they've witnessed scraped against the sky with their long stalks and the ribbed platforms of their massive heads. The warm and humid air made an immediate impression too, as did the swarms of buzzing pests focused in clouds around the water. Thomas left the tunnel to the sight of white, mushroom-stripped bridges with unseen support awaiting their first crossing over the rippling waters.

So they went, cutting east first to remain against the mountain edge. Thomas found the Dead Mire of eastern Zangarmarsh too much of an unknown risk to want to travel through it, but the southern draenei city of Telredor would surely stand hostile against the former Sunfury, maybe even send an aggressive force out despite the white banner. He planned a route angling between them, passing word to Donvorei and the rangers to keep an eye out for it.

By the time they reached the point he wanted to set south at, the Outland night had fallen in its subtle way, and he called for them to break camp for it. There was no more games, foxes, or celebration among them now, and after explaining his current plan to the officers and hearing their added input to it – those already experienced in this march – left them to be alone before retiring for the night. Sarrine came again, but he turned her away softly, wanting to think.

Next morning they headed south, close enough to smell the Dead Mire's sickly rot without seeing it. It was a long island that they traveled down, winding around the many mushroom stalks of all sizes and scaring off bog beasts and giant insects. At the bottom of the island, Thomas checked his map to see their close proximity to Telredor. The mushroom city was only a few miles away, which could have been any of the giant caps they could see in that direction.

East again they went, circling around the bottom of the Dead Mire. It took a three hundred yard bridge, made in less than an hour by Donvorei's men, to reach the next land mass, but they were traveling again. It was nearly nightfall again when they reached the next turning point – to head south once again – but Thomas did not want to stop them so close to the Dead Mire. Donvorei and the rest were exhausted but their resolve remained as they continued to march south, building as they needed to.

It was a smaller island that they stopped at, but it managed to house all of them well enough. Their tents peppered the blue-green mossy ground under the two medium sized mushrooms. Although tired of the marshlands and its smells, the elves would often look up with fascination. The cap was lit was orange and green light, giving off an illumination that was almost fae – yet elves neither blood, high, or night ever knew lands like this.

Only a few miles south still was the road between Telredor and the Cenarion Refuge. The latter was Thomas' destination, hoping to rely on the druid's neutral hospitality enough to trade for goods and supplies. The blood elves had an abundance of food, medical supplies, and living items like tents and blankets, but altogether had practically nothing else. Thomas was hoping that if he could secure their cooperation – or at least tolerance – then they could be safe from Telredor's draenei.

At the early hour they were marching again. Thomas could recognize fully the soldier in them now, breaking down the camp in only a few minutes and forming up without any reluctance, no matter when the call came. They crossed the final rippling bend of water over a stiff bridge, then Thomas sent Genveera ahead to make contact with the druids at the Cenarion Refuge, to announce them and beg for hospitality for their force.

The marching hastened once they were on a real, solid road, and only a few hours later the night elven lights could be seen in the distance, and Thomas had the blood elves wait under Jerath's lead while he went forward to talk to the druids. Sure enough, there were concerns and terms to be made – no more than a dozen Sunfury allowed inside their refuge at any time, among others – but they promised fair treatment and hospitality. If that didn't encourage the elves of a future redeemed of the mistakes under Kael'thas, nothing would.

They broke a new camp to the north east, at the foot of the mountain range that formed the divider between Zangarmarsh and Hellfire Peninsula. The officers made rounds through the camp asking what necessities people needed and argued away vanities, then they entered the city to see what they could get. Hygiene matters, pots, and pans were the biggest on the list.

It was a short rest for them, and once again Sarrine came, to the grudging smile of Thomas. _"You aren't trying to run from me now, are you?"_

Thomas let go of the lumpy mushroom stalk and turned, a smirk turning up his lip on one side. _"Come with me."_ He looked back to the white stalk, got a good handhold, then began pulling himself up. The 'bark' was spongy and gave in if he were to push hard enough with his fingers or boots, allowing him to climb. He had the idea of seeing what was atop one of them before they left the marshlands.

Sarrine huffed a laugh from the ground, and only a second later he heard her cry as she lunged up high for her first grasp, beginning to follow. The mushroom was a few hundred yards tall, but their hands and feet were steady as they climbed and climbed. The blond was nimble and overtook him midway up, shooting him a gloating glance. Not to be outdone, Thomas made it into a race.

They stopped at the top, where the stalk blossomed out like an umbrella. It was thick ribs that lined the whole underside, but there was no beam or branchlike structure to cross to the outside. As Thomas began to consider it, Sarrine let go of the stalk with her hands – beginning to fall back – only to catch one rib between them and burying her fingers into the flaky material. Like a monkey on the underside of a tree branch, she grabbed it with her feet too and began climbing outward. Thomas watched for a moment, impressed, then began to follow in the same manner.

It was a far climb but not difficult for them, and soon they reached the lip that the ribs ended at. This time, it was Thomas who demonstrated: holding the rib between his feet, he hung upside down and drew out his daggers, then swinging himself forward, gouged them into the spongy flesh like an ice climber, beginning to hand over hand. Sarrine let go of the rib to do the same, yet as she swung forward to gouge the lip, her feet slipped from the rib.

She only managed a short, shrieking gasp before Thomas caught her hand. Hanging with only one hand on a dagger, he watched her looking up with wide green eyes as one of her daggers plummeted down below them. It would be falling for some time. Taking a breath, he heaved her up where she could grasp his other dagger, and then she buried her one remaining one higher. She produced a thin stiletto from her her sleeve to make up for the lost dagger, and then they were climbing over the lip together.

"_You sure as hell better have an easier way down,"_ she demanded once they were on top, lying down to recover her breath.

Pushing himself to his feet, Thomas turned to look around them. He came up to her a second later with a smile and held out his hand for her. _"Look."_

Sarrine took it and let him lift her to her feet, then standing with him, she finally looked around them, only to gasp. Neither noticed their hands remained clasped. _"By the sun! It's... beautiful."_

Mushroom caps of all colors rolled out before them like round hills. Most of them glowed orange or other starkly contrasting light. Down below, they could see leagues of sky blue water bends and dark land masses, both speckled with strange lights from what might grow there. From their vantage point, the scope of what they saw was awing, and it gave them the feel of tiny ants in such a large world, enhanced by the Twisting Nether and whole planets suspended above them.

They remained silent at the view for a long while, until Sarrine tightened her grip on his hand and gestured them forward with a mischievous smile. _"Shall we dangle our feet from the edge, so you can have a second crack at saving a fair maiden's life? You might even get a certain reward for it."_

Thomas noticed then the continued presence of her warm, smallish hand in his, but he lightly pulled her the other way. _"You're much too clumsy for me. This way, where the tip pierces the sky. We can lay out in a safer manner."_

She didn't argue, only smiled and followed along with him. That smile almost made him pause though, and it etched into his mind for a burning few seconds. Sarrine was the typical elven beauty, with short blond hair done well despite the conditions of their march. Two garnet earrings studded her lobes, and her pale skin sported a natural light blush on her cheeks. Her ranger armor too was browns and greens and form-fitting, though the cut was just low enough to show a suggestive valley at the neckline.

Shaking her visage from his mind, they made it to the very top of the mushroom cap and laid down together. They watched the churning sky, so alien and bizarre to them from Azeroth yet so beautiful. The croaking and buzzing from the marshes was absent at that height, with even the breeze nearly stagnant. It was peaceful up there.

After several minutes of the pensive silence, Sarrine surprised him by turning over onto his side, beginning to stare at him instead. Thomas met her gaze, wondering at her actions; he needed to ask her. "Sarrine?"

"Hmm?" she returned, beginning to pick at a fringe on his armor. She remained smiling at him.

"_Aren't you with Loraeoth?"_

Sarrine chuckled, ending with an even broader smile. _"We're just friends, no matter how much he begs otherwise. It's been that way since we were children."_ Her hand came to a rest on his chest, and she said slyly, _"Should I ask why the interest in my availability?"_

Thomas smiled and looked away from her eyes. _"I'm up at what might be the most stunning spot in all of Outland with an equally beautiful woman. A man ought to just be grateful for what he already got."_ He looked back at her.

Her wide smile hadn't changed, and she told him, _"You know, you could just kiss me. Nothing is stopping you."_

"_Ah, sorry, my Thalassian is still a little rusty. What is that word 'kiss?'"_ He threw an uneasy accent on the word, as if he'd never heard it before.

Sarrine slapped his shoulder with her palm, cheeks turning red. _"Ass. You're going to make me do it, aren't- _mmph!" She fell into the kiss immediately.

When they separated, it was to another bright smile from her, and her radiant eyes twinkled with a new light. Thomas touched her soft cheek, also smiling until he admitted, _"I don't think we should."_

"Oh?" she asked, blinking owlishly. _"And why is that? Too pretty for me, are you?"_

He ignored her jest. _"Because our travels together have an end, and you won't be accepted into Stormwind nor myself into Silvermoon. Because I don't know what the future holds, other than me guiding you and your people off of Outland."_

"_Is there another woman?"_

Thomas thought of the white haired woman that had visited him in his tent, and the golden haired Genveera she reminded him of. He thought of Velanee. _"There's not."_

Sarrine laid herself on her back, to look towards the alien sky. _"To be frank, then, Deliverer, I am very grateful for what you've done for us. A month ago, my life was nothing more than cowering with Loraeoth and Jaden, hiding from nether anomalies, from preying demons, from the despicable men that thought us women too weak to defend ourselves."_ There was a hard flash over her eyes, but then she sighed. _"Nearly every day I would walk to the edge of that blighted landmass, and I'd consider stepping off, to be done with that life and try my chances in wherever it spat me out in the Nether. You saved me from that. You gave me new hope and new life._

"_I would do... anything for you, Thomas. And I mean that from the heart. Discovering you are one of us, a ranger – and a damned skilled one – was amazing, and you even make great company. So if you just want a little distraction while you take us out of here, then I'm okay with that. If you were looking for a longer courtship, then I would be glad to follow you after the march, and I'd have no issues with disguising my eyes in Alliance towns. If this was just meant to be fun and you don't have an interest in me, then I'm okay with that too. Perhaps, maybe, though just don't suggest otherwise if it's so."_

When she finished, she was looking to him again, green eyes clear and beautiful. Thomas had a vague suspicion that Sarrine was young, not just be elven standards but by human too. He doubted she was even a century old, for all the wars and strife she had experienced.

"_You aren't the first to mention continuing on with me, after the delivery home,"_ he told her. _"I hadn't been prepared for such a request. Now though, I don't think I'd mind keeping in contact with a few of you following the march. If you would prefer accompanying me, rather than rejoining your people and home, then... well, I don't think I'm ready for a courtship, let alone near settling down, but I think a more... exciting romance could be had out in the adventuring world."_

Sarrine's attention peaked, and she leaned over again with interested eyes. "Oh?"

"Oh," he replied, matching her small grin, and his finger traced a line from her chin under her jaw, to below her ear. His head began to lean closer, prompting her to do the same. Just as their lips met again, chastely, his fingers finished their path through the soft locks of her hair to find the spongy length of ear.

It was an idle, curious action of Thomas' part, to stroke along the ear, but there was a very obvious tremor from Sarrine before both of her hands shoved him back, with a brilliant scarlet flooding her face.

"_Okay!"_ she declared, to no question. _"Okay, none of that unless clothes are coming off, mister!"_ Her ear actually twitched, demonstrating motor action there, and one of her hands quickly covered it to rub at something. She shook her head after.

"_Ticklish?"_ he asked.

"_Yeah, let's call it that,"_ she said quickly._ "It's like a tickle."_

With a soft laugh, Thomas leaned in again, careful where he placed his hand at the side of her head, and they kissed again.

XxX

"So you are the one they call Deliverer of the Exilee."

Thomas was slow in responding, breathing out carefully. He wasn't exactly nervous, but this was his first meeting of leaders. The last time he had stood before her, he had been but a soldier for hire. He kept his goals in mind, to keep the Cenarion Expedition an ally and establish himself in a respected manner for the sake of the blood elves he was guiding.

"To be honest, I wasn't aware they had decided on a name for themselves. I suppose it is apt though: the Exilee. My name is Thomas, and indeed I am the one that is taking the elves safely out of Outland to rejoin their people," he returned, also in Common. The night elf tongue he knew to be quite similar to Thalassian, but the conversation would not pass smoothly, so they settled for what they both spoke fluently.

Ysiel Windsinger nodded sagely. Though she might appear young, he knew all elves to be infinitely older and wiser. As the leader of the refuge here, she had to have a quite a history and experience. He didn't remember being nervous before her last time, when she spoke of the war and his place in it, but now tension had its place here and he had to consider her entire personality when regarding her.

She returned, "I am surprised to hear it is a Common name they have taken upon themselves. I have seen that you are the only human among them, these former Sunfury blood elves." There was a brief, hard edge to her voice in saying the name, for good reason. "I remember you though, Thomas, and I have not forgotten the aid you have given my people and this town."

Her voice trailed off there, and she stared at him with heavy regard. Thomas took a breath and said, "I am sorry to come back to you like this, Mistress Windsinger, at the front of the enemies your expedition was started to defeat. But I ask you to keep in mind that you have had your victory already, and the Sunfury are no more. Years may have passed since you last knew me, but I have not changed much from the hired blade that was so quick to throw himself into the fray for the rightful cause. You can trust me as the leader of these Exilee, as they make the final pilgrimage back from their exile."

Ysiel laughed softly, not with insult. "You may relax, Thomas. If I harbored any ill will towards you or your people, there would have been no terms to allow you inside my town, and indeed no quarter if you pressed your proximity. However, it is not your intentions or the loyalty of your people that I shed doubt or fear on; it is the end of your march, when you have rejoined our beloved world of Azeroth." She added, "Also, my name is Ysiel and you have permission to address me as such."

"I would enjoy your wisdom on the matter, Ysiel."

"I am sure you have noticed that your exile carry themselves as an army, despite the white flags they wave above them. There is a danger in that mindset, even with their clear devotion to you. For example, even now, the one with silver hair has her bow trained upon my breast as we talk here."

Thomas sighed and briefly touched his forehead with his palm. "I was aware of her watching, but I had ordered the rangers' disarmament before accompanying me here. Please forgive the hostility; I will administer fitting punishment to her for it."

"I am not angered by the threat. My sentinels have her surrounded with their own bows for if she takes action, and my life is not in danger from that hastily sung bow. But this is an example of my warning. It is not with disrespect to you that she has taken this action, but with devotion that she intends to protect your life even against your word. They are soldiers – even more dangerous: they are soldiers that have lost. They will not allow themselves the same mistake of losing their leader."

There was no doubt why this woman was the leader of the expedition, Thomas noted. His spine tingled with the same feeling it had when he was younger and would realize the sometimes millennia old wisdom and experience that a seemingly young elf could carry. Like a human talking to a vastly ancient tree, was his old analogy.

She continued: "I understand you mean only to guide the blood elves home, like travelers through a forest, but while you understand the responsibility you have for them, you must be aware that there will be no easy parting once you are through the portal. It is not to Silvermoon City that they hold allegiance to but to the one they call Swiftblade, the Deliverer. Prepare yourself for the mantle of command.

"When you step through the portal, they will be ready to take up a new banner for you, and they will march where you tell them to. You will hold a small but potent army, seen as rogue by the large hands of the Horde and the Alliance, with allies and comrades that will be few and very far between. You move and act like a sentinel, so I believe you can take them quite far, and under you, I believe you can do much good with them, but my friend Thomas, I do not envy the future you will hold in your hands."

Thomas found himself staring out the balcony instead of her intense eyes, and he was glad when she finished. His back was tight with tension and jaw clenched, and after several attempts of clearing his throat, he said to her, "You share much words on what should only be a slim possibility. I only want to see them home after so many years of mistakes and hardship. But there is the implication of new drums of war in your words. Has something happened that I am unaware of? A Fourth War?"

"It was the desperate word of a fleeing refuge. We have no method to validate his mad words, but there is no doubt of honest fear in him. Just be cautious when you reach Azeroth and listen to the wind before you try to let them go."

XxX

They camped outside Cenarion Refuge for three days. Under the consideration of Ysiel's words, Thomas picked up several books on military command and other historical books; he had no intention of taking up that mantle, but the possibility prompted him to action. It was in the middle of _A Thousand Leagues From Home_ and comparing that to his present march when he heard someone approaching his tent with unusual subtlety and soft steps.

As it was the final night before they marched again at early light, it wasn't uncommon for the rangers or officers to come with questions and concerns, though the last had come nearly an hour ago, and it was nearing Witching Hour. The one approaching had the sound of a ranger or rogue – he had a few blood elf assassins under him. So sitting with the book in one hand and his dagger across his lap, he watched the tent flap for the person to enter.

Casual cloth wear was fitted nicely to her frame, seen from under the heavy grey cloak she carried around her and hooded her face with. No weapons, not even hidden ones, were carried by her, and she made the fact obvious with how she carried herself. When the flap shut behind her, one pale hand lifted and slashed to the side, dimming his one candle to a miniscule warm glow that didn't reach her at the entrance.

She accompanied the gestured with sweet Thalassian words: _"I hope I am not intruding, Deliverer."_ His skin prickled with goosebumps at the voice, both with memory and the mere suggestive sound of them. In the darkness, she removed her hood to reveal white hair and gleaming green eyes. The woman that had visited him before.

His eyes narrowed at the return of her visage. Not long ago, Genveera the Swan had been in this tent with the rest of the officers, the one he had thought to also be this woman. They were of near equal height, yet her pale skin glowed like pearl, and her hair revealed itself as several shades lighter, more than even Velanee's silver – like moonlight spun around her head. The face wasn't exactly as he remembered Genveera's either – or anyone he'd seen in the camp – though he knew that stance of a ranger.

At his silence, she stepped forward while her hands undid the first few ties of her plain tunic. At the sight of her cleavage, he recalled the shape of her breasts in his hand, her sighs and shivers to his touches. Her husky voice didn't match Genveera's, but he had thought it merely a change of tone for the occasion. For too long he debated the inconsistencies, and she sauntered close enough to gently take the book from his hand. He watched her green eyes flick to the title, showing no sign of her thoughts, then marked the page and closed it.

She saw his hand on the dagger and paused, looking back to his eyes. Thomas felt frozen still, until the look prompted him to action. Why did he have a weapon drawn before her? A sly motion twisted the blade from his lap to its sheath, and it followed the book onto his makeshift table. Immediately, the unknown ranger straddled his lap, taking his head between her hands and curling her fingers through his hair.

Shaking himself free of the daze, Thomas opened his perception to her, not just his eyes. Shortened, quickened breaths, dilated pupils and plump lips. His hand touched her cheek and she careened against it, back arching slightly. He touched her thigh and she tensed, exhaling a morsel harder. He knew it from the eyes, but her body showed all the signs regardless.

"_You come only under Bloodgem lust."_ It was an accusation, and he stilled his hands.

She did not flinch, but her fingers dug against him almost possessively. With all the song of seduction, she said, _"I ask again, does it spoil the night for you?"_

"_I thought it was supposed to be in thanks,"_ he reminded, a bit sharper than intended. Genveera's sweet perfume filled his nose, and he blinked suddenly at this woman's shape. His hands touched her hips and dragged up, feeling the muscles as she squirmed at it, until his hands came to the firmness of her ribcage. _"And it does, Swan."_

There! A lapse in concentration, just a brief shock, and he felt the tingle under his fingers of faltering magic. He squeezed with the tips, dragging back down, while her lusty voice stumbled with a nervous squeak: _"I am Snow."_

"_Do you think I am a fool?"_ he demanded, coming up with his hands again and dragging his thumbs along the underside of her bosom. _"That because I lack magic, I cannot recognize a glamor?"_

She pushed her chest against his hands, while her eyes bore down at his. She grabbed his shoulders and squeezed while saying, _"You are not a fool, Deliverer."_

His hands stopped around her waist, and he lifted her slender body from his as he stood and set her on her feet. He said in Common, "Go, and do not return again under the influence of Bloodgems, Genveera." Her bright green eyes betrayed no expression as she stepped backwards, watching him, until she was at the entrance and stepped through.

XxX

"_Ready yourselves!"_ rang a clear elven voice over the sounds of battle. The sharp twangs of bows were ceaseless, just as the snarls and roars of the charging orcs were. The short line of Bloodwarder defenders stood tensed and solid, and they banged their swords to their shields in a mantra as they waited for the orcs to make it to them.

They were composed of just two lines, the rangers and defenders, against hundreds of raging fel orcs. The red skinned warriors had come to the loud blares of throaty warhorns, the reason no more than simple blood thirst, Thomas felt. The rest of the blood elves remained a few hundred yards east of their position. He hoped to keep them entirely free of the fighting (most still too frail and weak for honest battle, and many would die even if their victory was obvious), but they would if their lines broke.

"_For the Sunwell!"_ another cried out, and another, _"For the Shadow!"_

Despite the efficiency and deadly stopping power of true ranger arcane-infused arrows, it was clear that the enraged beasts were advancing unhaltingly. Thomas fired his bow with them, still an accurate shot with enchanted arrows, until the orcs were too close. He threw it over his shoulder with a shout and jumped between the lines, yanking out his blades. He might still be lacking as a military leader, but he knew battles and he knew fighting.

He felt two blessings settled over him between steps, a priest's Power Word from Saela and a paladin's (in this case Blood Knight) seal, and he gladly ripped open the first orc without stopping his run. Loud, desperate cries and orders raised from his elves – _"Protect the Shadow!"_ – but he shouted them back, to hold the lines.

Three more orcs fell to his daggers, with many others dropping from arrows, before Thomas shadow-stepped to the one still leading the charge and hooking his dagger into the thick, red skinned back and yanking him back in a spray of demonic blood. With a twirl, the next two found the daggers already in their hearts.

They had the high ground, slowing the charge of the orcs up the rocky hills, and the building numbers of corpses on the dirty ground contributed to breaking the orc's momentum. Before long, the brutes realized the disadvantage and turned their eyes away from the solid line of elves on the short bluff to the human already in their grasps.

The orcs swarmed around Thomas and died for it, but so did the warrior people leave their mark in his armor and skin. Thomas used every energy bursting and shadow trick he had at his disposal to escape the worst of their attacks and still drop them like flies, but as he fought, often stepping through the shadows to escape being surrounded, he noticed that the elves had advanced forward to directly engage in the fighting.

The rangers also disposed of their bows and dove in with wild strikes, jumping nimbly over the obstacles into the writhing pile of red muscle. Desperately, Thomas jumped to their position and held himself at the front, absorbing as much of the attention and aggression that he could. He barked orders to the Blood Knights to switch to only healing and was glad to see Saela hanging back for the same already.

The scramble was short but agonizing. Already they had won out from their previous position, hence the advance, but still the orcs was savagely strong and their axes always sharp. No matter how old, skilled, and agile elves were, they were susceptible to deadly mistakes and bad positions, so Thomas made sure to not let any orc fully swing a weapon if he could help it.

In hardly a minute, they were fighting on top of dead orc corpses, while the living ones stumbled at the awkward footing. Rangers had no such problem, keeping balance easy as if it were a flat road, and the surviving fel orcs growled orders for their retreat. They harried the escape with bow shot, but Thomas swept through for a damage assessment.

Some were bloodied with their own blood, but the worst of the injuries was Jaden's severed left hand. He and Saela were kneeled together, pressing the dirty limb to the gushing stump, and both muttering softly as small strands of holy magic encircled them. After, Thomas was glad to see the hand rightfully reattached, though Saela confirmed it would be too numb for use for another week or two.

Styling his words a bit after a speech he read in a book, he celebrated their victory and sent them back up to the camp to rest up. The blood elves stood strong and proud as they made their way back up, without a single loss. The rangers did not depart with the rest though, crouching around Thomas with their bows readied. Even Jaden sat on a boulder with a dagger in his right hand, eyes peering around him with a hard glint.

"_We are almost there,"_ he told them. _"Two, maybe three days, and we will be back through the portal, back home. Your exile will finally be over."_ All eyes glanced over to him, some with hope, others with unspoken questions. He said nothing more of it, standing himself and waving them forward. _"Let's get back to camp."_

XxX

Leagues upon leagues of red land stretched beyond, split and sundered and charred but unmistakably part of Hellfire Peninsula. The vale before him was split with the unmistakable road that connected Hellfire Citadel to the Dark Portal, like a yellow scar that cleaved the land in half. The Portal itself wasn't visible, hidden somewhere behind the storming clouds and lances of lightning seen at the end of the scar.

Crawling forward though were dark blotches – some in lines, others just individual ants. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of the dark shapes. Most remained on the road, remained together, but drifters departed off to nowhere. This wasn't an invasion or an organized movement. It was clear that these newcomers had no idea yet where they were going, only that they needed to come to Outland.

"_I thought we were supposed to be the exiles,"_ Sarrine mentioned to Thomas, squatting beside him on his narrow vantage point. Her fingers plucked her bowstring like a harp; he had long since noticed she did it as a nervous habit. _"Do you want someone to meet them for answers?"_

Thomas felt there wasn't a need. He knew, somewhere in his gut, with the whispering words of Ysiel in his mind, what was happening. Still, he kept his confidence and told her, _"I will do it myself. We should have nothing to fear though. We will move on and let ourselves be seen."_

"_Valiant march of the White Army?"_ she asked, using the common name for their force. It was coined from the submissive banners they still carried proudly.

Thomas found himself slowly shaking his head. The feeling remained nestled in his belly. _"Tell them to raise green banners now. Have the blacksmiths heat their portable forges and the leatherworkers preparing hides and needles. Blades sharp and hilts clear. Tell them... No. Just tell them, Sarrine."_

"_The Green Army of the Exilee? Are we marching into a war?"_ There was husky excitement in her voice.

"_I am taking you all home, no matter what lies on the other side of that portal."_

"_Nothing can stand in the way of the Deliverer,"_ she agreed, eyes flashing as they glanced at him. She stood and offered him a hand. _"Come, let us meet these exiles and see what information they have to offer."_

They made their way to the camp. Thomas passed orders to Commander Raeloth to begin the march again, directly to the portal. The former captain found the rank thrust upon him in a sudden rush of actions, as their white banners where hauled away and stripped in favor of green. The man had experience leading men, with a miraculous string of specific victories under him. He accepted the position humbly, and those that knew him accepted it gladly.

The rangers were then sent to scout ahead of the main body now, under lead of the bearded Jerath, but they insisted he took some with him for protection. He wasn't surprised to see Sarrine, Genveera, and Velanee step forward for the task. Recently, tension had built between the Shadow and the bloodgem addicted Swan, but professionally, nothing had changed between them, and she was his most capable ranger.

So while their forces sluggishly began making their way down from the hills into the flatlands below, the four of them rushed ahead at a fast pace. Eyes were kept sharp as a hawk's. It was obvious too when the refugees noticed the approaching army by the way many turned direction and hurried away, while others pointed and squinted for the banners – was it the red-black of the Horde or the blue-gold of the Alliance?

Most of the exile was composed of humans, they discovered. A good ninety out of every hundred, with some mix of the stout dwarves or child-sized gnomes. Very rarely there was the slow grace of a hooded elf, body thin like a reed yet still the least fatigued of all the races seen. One mass of two-count twenty, waving solid blue cloth that could have once been a shirt, began to move towards the approaching army. The men wore swords at their waists, yet only one managed a breastplate for armor, the rest jerkins or even simple cloth vests.

Despite the caution of his protectors, Thomas approached the ragtag soldiers, hailing them with a raised hand. The leading man, in only a fine tunic but mounted on a horse, hailed him back and let them approach. When they were close, they slowed to a walk, and the leader also walked forward. By then, it was obvious that those with him were blood elves, not the allied high elves, and they noticed several free their bows and casually hold them at their waists.

"Human, did your commander send you to speak for that army?" the man asked in Common once close enough. His horse wheeled nervously at the tight grip he had over the reigns.

"I speak for them, yes," Thomas told him softly, getting a better look at the haggard soldiers behind. "A strange place for you to come, lord. We march to rejoin our beloved world of Azeroth, yet we find Azeroth rushing to meet us here. What is the meaning behind this?"

"Before we get to the pleasantries, I want to know the intention of your army. What is the name of your commander? To whom is your allegiance?" The lord's suspicion was understandable. Thomas could tell by the way he carried himself he had once been a knight and had tasted battle, but what struck him most was the presence of a lord down here, away from his estates when he was clearly retired.

A second meeting of leaders, and this time Thomas found himself announcing himself. There would be no more hiding. "What you see is the Exilee, the remnants of the blood elves Kael'thas took with him to Outland now seeking a return home. Our march is peaceful, but should any try to bar our way, they will be blanketed with arrows before the first life is threatened. I stand at the front of them. My name is Thomas, also called the Swiftblade, and it is to me that you can address your concerns, lord."

The lord released a heavy exhale through his nose, staring down his brown mustache at the four of them. His steed had stopped its dancing, and with his free hand he stroked his short beard. Finally, he said, "I have seen front men before, Swiftblade, and I wouldn't put it past the elves to manage such mischief – an escort of three for a commander? Hah! You will not be of any help to us."

"Three handpicked elven rangers, whom have certainly toured in more wars these last few years than you have in your lifetime, and I assure you, lord, that should you and your men wish hostilities upon me, they will not be needed in your execution. Now, I have told you my name. It is only polite that you return the favor."

The lord's nostrils flared at the threat. He growled, "You speak like a long ear, boy. I don't know what your game is, but you do not need my name. Here are the answers you seek:

"Whatever you hope to find on Azeroth, whatever home you're trying to return to, you won't find it. It will be burned and razed to the ground with a dozen corpses twisted and rotting atop it. They don't even have the decency to bury the dead afterward, and they will ambush you if you try to do it yourself. Stormwind is in anarchy, the leadership gutted, and the elves, blood or high doesn't matter, didn't have the stability in the first place to survive the axe drop. Silvermoon City had the worst of it, I heard. Take heed and turn around now, join me in finding the resistance to strike back... or march on like a fool, into their maws. It matters not, only the shame of a few hundred less blades where it counts."

"Have both the Alliance and Horde been attacked, or do they strike each other?" Thomas asked.

"No one knows yet. The only word I have is that the "Singing Blade" is behind the attack on Stormwind. Now, will you join us, or do you march to die?" Thomas could only shake his head, knowing he must keep on.

The lord's horse wheeled again, while his eyes remained on them, and then he turned back to his men. "Yah! Onward, men! The long ears will buy us more time for the defense." The soldiers began to move again, back towards the road, while the lord moved to the front again without looking back.

Around Thomas, the rangers looked to him, indifferent to the confrontation. Genveera prompted him by asking, _"Deliverer?"_

Sarrine noticed the way he was still locked in thought and added, _"Did any of that make sense to you? Do you know what's going on through that portal?"_

"_I don't know much more than you,"_ Thomas told them truthfully, and he glanced at the band making away from them. Hardly a suitable army, more like a militia of townsfolk – those from the lord's estate grounds? _"But this is not my first warning. Something has happened on Azeroth, perhaps a Fourth War, but it doesn't sound like the Horde or Alliance are responsible."_

"_He hinted that Silvermoon has been razed,"_ Velanee reminded, not that any had missed it. _"To where will you lead us? Or does our journey together end on the other side of that portal?"_

"_I'm not sure,"_ Thomas said, spreading his hands.

Sarrine turned worried, bursting out: _"But if there is some invasion-"_

"I don't know!" Thomas interrupted sternly, in Common. His hands dropped. "Leave the subject alone for now, but pass word through the army of danger on Azeroth. If anyone doesn't want to go through the Dark Portal, they are free to stay with the refugees here, but I am leading the rest through, as I promised. Once we are on the other side, we'll get our bearings and find out what happened, then plan from there. This doesn't have to be your war."

They looked at him, or perhaps to him, until Velanee glanced at the storm cloud around the Dark Portal. Her words were soft: "If it weren't for you, Thomas, we would still be in the crumbling Netherstorm, just waiting to die. We owe you our lives. This army, we have chosen to give you our allegiance too, and we will follow wherever you command. Perhaps, once we are through that portal, this Green Army can make a difference in whatever is threatening our world. I just ask if you will keep that in mind."

Her words echoed Ysiel's. Jaw clenched, Thomas gave her a short nod and began the run back to the army. As they moved, his eyes strayed to the lord's forces, now a good mile away. That was a man who knew how to lead men, better than Thomas could. He knew what actions to take against this threat.

_But he won't hold himself responsible for these elves' lives,_ Thomas told himself. As a hired blade, he had met many commanders and seen their regard for their men. Thomas' promise was safety, even if that would have to change soon. No, for too long he had held the disclaimer of a soldier under orders. He had taken the responsibility for the Sunfury elves and would hold on to it, for better or for worse.

XxX

"_We'll go through first,"_ Genveera offered with a gesture to the rangers. Around them was the violent storm, kicking up dust with snapping winds with such great force that none could ease their nerves. The Dark Portal spiraled with green light at the very front, scraping the sky with its size and silently menacing. With a thick, long body, their forces waited before the gateway, weathering the storm as they waited anxiously for Thomas' command.

They were mere steps from returning home.

Thomas and the rangers were at the head, with him regarding the portal cautiously. To Genveera's shouted suggestion, he shook his head, returning loudly over the winds, _"No! I will go and clear a path, if there is need. Count out a minute, then follow me through."_ No refugees had come through in some time, several hours at least, leading to worry and suspicion as to what might be blocking the way on the other side.

His unnamed honor guard disagreed with the plan, but they knew his reasons. He had promised not a life would be lost if they listened to him, using his own body as a shield from all the dangers. He would keep his word until they were all through the portal. He was the best of them in combat anyways, able to beat them all and more without taking harm, even if Jerath was better skilled in purely ranger ability.

He met Sarrine's eyes first, seeing the passionate fire inside as she returned his look, along with the lines of worry at the edges, before he returned his attention to the portal. He took in one last dusty, stormy breath, then drew his daggers and ran towards the Dark Portal. He himself was finally going home too. Light, with a whole army behind him.

Tension crept up his spine and back in the final few steps, and on instinct, he gathered the shadows up around him, stepping out of the light and into Stealth. Then he plunged through the green portal.


	5. Chapter 3: The Wind of the North

Sytekh: Thank you, really, for the hefty reply there. I'm more after criticisms than apologetics, and I think you hit on something with the mushroom scene being expanded on. According to the timeline, 8 days pass from that point to the end of the chapter, and the reader never gets an explanation. I'll fix it up before Thomas' next chapter is released (Chapter 8? 9 if chapter 2 get's split). I would like to clarify though, by "revealing the enemy" I mean to you the reader. I know how each character slowly comes to the realization, and the varying misconceptions each has until actually figuring it out. But the order I place the chapters in decides how the reader comes to see them. For example if Thomas only sees one in a chapter, and Malthon actually fights one, who's should be placed first? What about Drekthac, who hears only a trait of one – should that chapter be before you actually know such is a trait of the enemy, or after Malthon's, so you realize exactly what that rumor was about? That is what I was mostly referring to, though there was a point where I had written a battle between Thomas and one, and deleted it, figuring it should come far later, and he should only witness one.

**Note:** Not too important, but in this chapter, you'll see references to "Prophets" and "prophets." Uppercase refers to qiraji Prophets, the big guys and also the last of the three qiraji models in game. Lowercase is the class "prophet," which refers to the in-game "Twilight Prophets." The silver-haired, blind chicks that are elite and kicked your ass in vanilla. They were leading figures in the war.

* * *

Chapter 3

_The Wind of the North_

* * *

X Fallen X

"_You're orders, Narelle, are to only follow and watch him from a distance. He may move freely about the desert, but he must not be allowed to carry a single qiraji out... and if he shows any signs of sway under the old god, you know what you must do."_

Sin de Rath the Mad, he called himself. A human, once an ally who marched with them against the silithid and the qiraji armies, now the hand that controlled the qiraji's actions. It was agonizing how an old god could get into anyone's head, turn even the most faithful and trustworthy into a servant. Though he spoke with passion and heart of his good intentions, her commander was not a fool. Rarely did a turncoat jump into the arms of the enemy in one foul leap.

So while her commander and comrades spoke with the others at Cenarion Hold about the new threat, she watched this Sin de Rath from the distance. Of course he would not be allowed to move about their land without every movement, action, and decision carefully weighed and measured, to be quietly put down when he proved burdensome.

From the brief confrontation they had, they knew this warlock was frightfully powerful, to keep them at bay with just his magical presence. They would not have been able to detain him if they came to blows. However, she had trained as a warden for over a century, before receiving the call to take up arms as a sentinel again in the War of the Shifting Sands. He would be dead long before arms were drawn.

At the moment, Sin de Rath sat high on a powerful steed of flame and muscle. Behind him hovered five Battleguards, waiting patiently for his command but also tense and protective, in case their master should fall into danger. She recognized all the signs from her years of fighting them. Around the group of them were the Twilight's Hammer cultist survivors, creeping up from places of hiding and rest at the weathered camp.

The cultists' clothing were no more than a faint pink now, the dyes sun-bleached away, and the color was contrasted by their dark tanned skin, much like Sin de Rath's. The warlock was a man of the desert. Watching him approach the other broken allies of the C'Thun confirmed her suspicion of his infidelity, and she worked a small spell of wind to listen to the conversation – a simple sentinel trick. She also drew a poisoned arrow and nocked it with her bow, keeping low to the sand.

Narelle frowned as Sin began his speech to the cultists though. He made no secret of the battle lines between them, not even a pretend that he was a lost cultist commander in favor of the qiraji. He told them near the same story he had told her, mentioning the soon to come break of the qiraji Gladiators and the possibility of escape from here, though he excluded any mention of the new old god. If he did, she realized, they would connive a plan of joining it in a new path of destruction.

Her arm began to waver, and she eased off the tension from her bow, continuing to listen. Whatever this Sin de Rath's plan was, he was either keeping it very secretive or he was entirely truthful. Just one man in a wild cause faced with hard decisions and impossible actions. He couldn't escape the desert, not with them Watching, yet he was very sure and determined.

Covered in a mix of sand and blended shadows, Narelle resigned herself to simply listening to him. Very smooth, confident, and charismatic, his speech was, and she could tell the cultists were being drawn into his words. The way he spoke of blinding the Watchers, the certainty, she could almost believe him. Her mind played an image of hundreds of qiraji Gladiators charging their gate, occupying their attention, and she could see his hope of scurrying by in the confusion.

Her poisoned arrow was put away for now. He wasn't a threat, not yet, so she would continue to watch. It was no surprise to her though that the cultists here gathered what little supplies they could and began to follow him. North they set out, towards the next cultist camp and eventually Hive'Zora. Closer to the exit from this forsaken desert.

Narelle waited until they had passed from sight, then picked herself up to follow. She had her orders.

XxX

It was never dark in a silithid hive. The amber haze filled the organic chamber with warmth and musk, spilled from bright-tipped, bulbous stalks. The silithid had a small presence even in their own hive, having been cleared out ages ago, but the tiny workers still flitted about like fist-sized flies. They gave no reaction to the intruders in their territory. The usual creeping noise of the hive was drown out presently by the roaring buzz of Battleguard wings.

Taking a breath, an unhooded Sin unraveled his map of Silithus and pinned it into the carapace of the wall with a dagger. The thick, enchanted parchment would repair itself after, but at the moment, its bright inks and colors revealed the fine detail of the land, down to even tent markers for the cultist camps. It was accurate to the time of the great war, though Sin had slashed red lines through the extinguished camps from his last check.

Hive'Zora, their current lofty residence, was the western blight. Several miles north was a formerly massive outpost, with another to the north west. Even after the defeat of the cultists, the wind stone excavation sites became havens of refuge for them, with the last major centralization being a cluster of camps at the far north.

Light and shadow, he was looking to use the cultists as allies, and to help them break free of the elven prison of sand.

"For us to succeed in our efforts, we are in further need of eyes and hands. I have spies under critically close observation of the qiraji brothers, and our movements will be timed around theirs. The Watch is a beast of many eyes, and no amount of sand or dust will shroud them all. No, we must lead them to fix elsewhere, to cover the whole land on every square we don't take, but they will not look at nothing. For that, we will need noise, so much noise in such area that the beast is pinned under its own limits.

"Done appropriately, we can gain access all the way to the final gate unseen, and it will be the brothers that open our hole out. We must clear the path for the brothers, to ferry them to the gate without interference, and when... No, not the gate, see here, just before it. Our machinations must bottle them here, at the canyon entry and they must choke there. Staghelm Point will be seized though by our hands, to snake around the choke and break down the canyon. The Watch will be too thin, concentrated everywhere else, and with a single fist and strong word, we will punch through."

Dark, pursed lips split to muttered, "Darkness, there truly is a way out of this blighted desert." The man was Darnin, called the Storm of the South by the water-bandits that followed him. His skin was tanned to a leather and dark as Sin's own, with wrinkles like cracks through it. Bald and lean and wiry, strong as a whip, and deceptively fast for his apparent age, it was clear why he had seized hold of the desert-hardened survivors.

With him was Handon, who rumbled coldly, "What do you need my men to do?" Formerly human, Handon had been raised undead back at Lordaeron and was among those freed by Sylvanas Windrunner, though years of bitterness eventually took him to the cult and here in Silithus, where the wind and sand wore away the rest of his dead flesh. Like the undead that followed him, he was no more than a bleached skeleton now, but armed and ruthless as they came.

Sekara and Ressact, the source of the roaring buzz, remained silent as they watched the proceeds.

"You will be my figurative muscle, to take advantage of your lack of basic supply needs. I can think of none better for ambushes in impossible conditions, when even the Watchers might not suspect. Darnin, I hear the south is your domain, and so you will be my sword there. You will be wild and reckless like the bandit they see you as, in such a manner that it will be clear the heat has cooked your mind. So cooked that you'll even let captives go with their water, but not their pretty undergarments or hair. When the time is closer, I'll have a more specific set of orders for you. It will be a speed race if you want to get out, but we will rely on the drudge of the system for the confused Watchers, to report to superiors and wait on new orders, while we slide out faster than a cone-tail rattler in a rainstorm."

With a finger, Sin addressed the map as he spoke: "I'm assuming another hundred between both outposts, and then we will move Hive'Ashi. Darnin, you squared off with the northern bandits more than once. What is their situation and how will they reply to escaping?"

One hand rubbed the grey-fecked stubble under his chin, as Darnin squinted at the map. "Expect around fifty between the two outposts now. The north has been split, since your last appearance." The weathered eyes glance at Sin meaningfully, and the pause had Sin's mind jump back to his last check on Silithus, to the flex of muscle and arcane power.

So the man recognized him, yet he still came. To what divinations? How far back did his memory stretch, Sin wondered. To the war or just the fear-mongering?

"Four months ago, Jern still held every loyalty up there, a good two hundred men, even after your greetings. He started a sort of civilization, hitting the elves good and hard when they needed more supplies, building solid shelters and water-taps, and we were hard pressed to oppose the vice of his grip when his iron hand extended south, to my domain. He wanted all of us reunited, no longer part of the cult but a new power in Silithus. Wind of the North he's called, and it was my resistance against him that my own silly title came to be.

"But with stability comes complacency... and ambition. There were those that wanted to smash open the gates out, with the strength that they had garnered, while Jern was content to live in the dust and muck. Tensions heated, throats were cut, and everyone scrambled to a side just before the fires began. Jern fled into the hive, the Ashi one you want us at, while those under the upstart Miko went north to dwell in the mountains. Apart from some madmen and some small bands of water-thieves, the old camp is empty."

Sin tapped the map with his finger, and a large red slash cut through the scrawling camp at the north, while also drawing circles around Hive'Ashi and the northern mountains. "So we will find support in this Miko, but not Jern – that's our guess? We shall see. What is our run of supplies now? Can the dwarves produce explosive powder, or is the desert too barren?"

XxX

"_You want to attack them on just a suspicion of being infiltrated cultists?"_

"_A strong suspicion, not without evidence, in a time when the benefit of the doubt must not be given. We need to put them under interrogation."_

"_...Fine. We will pull the answers from them. May the Shadow blind the party in the wrong here though."_

Sin emerged from the water in a slow motion, silent but for the soothing drips, with a languid breath drawn. His mind pulsed unpleasantly, but at least it was without pain. Sharp and jagged memories scraped around within though, of his time in Silithus, of the war, actions and regrets, and his death. Always his deaths; those never passed easily, and the return to life never came with the completeness he had felt before it. There was such trauma to bodily death, something that seared the circumstances and everything leading to and after it in an unforgettable manner.

Maybe that was why he always found himself coming back here, to the place he hated so much. Maybe that was why he greeted Sekara as a friend, despite the ingrained fear and loathing he had for all Bugsies.

Inhaling deeply, he floated on his back and looked to the ceiling of the cavern, seeing the lights and organic walls of a silithid hive. Tell him he would be taking a soothing bath in a silithid water hole, deep in a silithid hive, under the eye of several non-hostile qiraji and he'd have called the speaker mad. Maybe he was. His mind ached too much to focus on differentiating reality anymore.

His robes were draped over a knuckle of hive at the "shore." The rest of his enchanted armor and staff were there as well, pack too, but the most important addition was the sand-colored cloak neatly folded beside them all. An old article, won in a risky gamble against a goblin in Tanaris. It distorted the view of the wearer when seen against sand, like the shadow-mixing trick of rogues or an elf in shade. It had been a trademark during the war, and been packed away since the conclusion of it. He had become just a veteran warlock since then, in standard robes and action.

In the lull of the moment, he looked ashore to see Sekara and several other Battleguards watching silently from the edges. The old Bugsy had assured him of the safety of this bathing hole and the separation from the drinking water. With a dark-skinned hand, he waved her forward, urging softly, "Come here, Sekara."

The pink garbed girl began to hover over, though she glanced briefly at one of the other Battleguards. Ressact gave her voice, asking in the rasp, "Shall Sekara clean herself too?"

Sin gave no answer. His curiosities had returned, the scientific part that wished to know more of the qiraji. Personality, the system of their mind, the constraint and freedom of their communication, anatomy – he wanted to know more about this Sekara. With his hand still raised, he began to mix and distort the shadows with his magic. Slick, oily, seductive magic, filled with perverse euphoria and sickening lust just by the touch of shadow and fel.

A purple-black hand extended from his own and reached out towards Sekara – a controlled spell based on the death knight's dubbed Death Grip. The Battleguard did not flinch as it fell upon her, letting it unhook her veil from her face and pull off her helmet to clatter onto the organic ground. The pink veiled fluttered down with it. Her teal orbs remained fixed on him as her black hair spilled around her.

The Battleguards were designed to be pleasantly feminine. The black chitin over her mouth and neck appeared as if face paint, or a half-mask for a masquerade. An image of C'Thun's design. Because women were nimble and quick, a fine shape for aerial combat? Because the hearts of men faltered at butchering women? Infiltration or distraction? Were they used as bodily bribes for coercing the races of men? Perhaps not the last, considering their specialized use for defense and guard – though perhaps they were a gift of both, for the highly ranked.

They were the least armored of the qiraji too, the most fragile. Just warm, soft skin, he remembered. The oily touch of shadow magic began to slide past his barriers, inside his mind, and he felt himself growing aroused as he stared. The shadow-hand grasped the first golden band that held her breastplate, raising smoke with a dull hiss as it melted through. Sekara stopped at the water edge, watching him, while tendrils split into more shadow-hands and came to the other bands.

In a trance now, Sin found himself moving towards her, climbing up the smooth side out of the water hole. Sekara's talons touched the ground as she landed, folding her wings in, so when the bands snapped, the armor slid off without snagging on the weak attachments. The linked breastplate came off in a single piece, leaving her torso bare, and his eyes set upon her with his blazing curiosity.

But even as he wished to stare at her naked breasts, standing nude before her with clear want, the bright eyes drew him back in, enlarged to his vision as if forming the link between their minds. The shadow-hands retreated back to his fist, swirling in smokey tendrils around it, unwilling to release his touch of the sickly sweet corruption. Whispers of thought spoke to him, and he could imagine what was going through Sekara's wordless mind.

She was reading him, could see his lust and curiosity and did not question or wonder at it. Her will was in his hand, to please him as she could. That was her trust in him, the loyalty of a qiraji.

With his left hand, Sin touched along her cloth sleeve, pulling it down over her bicep, past her elbow and down the pink arm that housed her scythe blade. He did the same for her other sleeve, letting it fall to the ground. She was left startlingly slender, with literal sticks for arms on a female torso, nearly comical with the wide harem pants she wore. He dispelled the shadow magic from his right hand before grasping the last gold band at her waist and sliding it down.

It caught at the curve of her buttocks, compressing the soft tissue on the way around. She briefly lost her balance, touching his shoulders with her arms and briefly fluttering her wings yo keep in place. The touch was like a jolt of electricity to him, and the band dropped around her ankles, for her to step out of.

Like that, they were left fully exposed together, human and qiraji, man and woman. C'Thun had down his work well, down to nipples and a bellybutton on her. Left insectoid on her were the pincer vestigial limbs, the smooth carapace on her face and neck, the sheathed, bladed forearms, the taloned feet to the knee and opaque wings, and the last carapace that creeped up her fleshy thighs to the apex of her legs.

Eyes wandering again, Sin fixed his attention upon her womanhood. Like that on her face, the black carapace was molded smoothly and anatomically perfect, shaped into a dark triangle that might enact pubic hair, contrasting her lightly tanned skin. The cleft between the "netherlips" captivated him, until the spark of teal at his peripheral tugged his eyes back up to hers.

The eye contact lingered, and her teal orbs widened as they did, greater and greater, until he realized the link _was_ building up and her leaning in. He stepped closer, arms around her slender back, and their foreheads... touched. The world fell away to blackness, leaving only him and her standing together, bodies together through touch, and he despite the locked-gaze, he could see all of her body – and his too – as if from a third prospective. Eyes closed, he could still see them.

_Fire._ That was the shortest translation of the thought she created inside his mind. Burning, smoldering, immense, consuming _fire._ It was colored in awe, in fascination, and in rapture. _What is this fire?_ No curiosity, not like one might ask another. It was the feeling inside Sin de Rath, her desire to know its source, how to assist in its burning, in what manner could she quench its thirst.

Sin knew what she was feeling inside him. Even without the corruptive shadow magic still touching his mind, his human lusts had taken control. For the first time, Sin did not reply through words. It was an instinct to reply in kind to her, and he molded his own thoughts as thoroughly and exaggerated as he could within his mind. He thought of passion and sex, between and a man and woman. The wild sensations, the motions and pleasures, the want and fulfillment, the rush and agonies, the contact and sounds. He visualized its action on beds and on rugs, with the heavy breathing, and the final rush of orgasm. He kept it wordless, but he felt and 'saw' the tremor pass through her slender body. She had picked up on its meaning.

_Sekara... is no queen._ Her thoughts felt small, weaker and vague in his mind. Was that insecurity? Reluctance? Or was it something like a whisper, something dwarved by the magnitude of what she'd picked up from him?

Despite the nothingness of the bond, Sin watched from the outside view as his hands descended Sekara's back. The curve of her hips, the softness of her buttocks, then around her thigh to the front. He thought he could feel the firm bumps of the carapace as his hand dragged up, closer and closer. "It isn't always for offspring."

Sekara was completely still and silent during it, until his finger touched the black carapace of her womanhood. It wasn't him touching her, but it was, and he knew but didn't that it was soft there, malleable like her lips and mouth. He found the cleft and gently pushed between, finding it as smooth but dry as the outside, then retreated back out. Hardly a second later, a clear liquid dripped from her in a rush. A tingling buzz filled Sin's mind, a thoughtless construct from Sekara.

Idly, Sin found her slit again, wondering at the sudden reaction. She was slicked and ready as a woman got. Had it just been the single touch there? Or did she wind up like the mortal races? What was the warm buzzing inside his mind?

Sin found his head aching again, crushed under the strain of the foreign bond and carrying the burden of two minds in one brain. He recalled the way the shadow's oily hand had slipped by his solid defenses so easily, realized the way he was touching Sekara now, and presumed he should back off and regain control. Something was wrong, though he didn't feel any panic about it.

Taking a deep breath, Sin lightly touched his lips against Sekara's and separated their heads. The empty world was pulled away like a curtain, and in its place stood the real world again. The buzz in his mind vanished with it, replaced by a migraine unlike any he'd experienced before. With a gasp, Sin stumbled back a step, holding his head, and he felt something warm over his upper lip. His hand found it to be blood, dripping from his nose.

"Fuck," he grumbled, slipping back into the water. His suspicions of the link being detrimental to a human was confirmed. And his defenses? What happened there? Quickly, he cloaked his mind in shadows, cooling off the hot pain and calming his emotions. Sekara was left standing small and apparently vulnerable at the water edge, arousal reflecting the hive lights between her thighs and naked as he recalled.

With a monotonous chant, Sin mustered the energies of a summon, calling forth the demon nicknamed Lynona. She was his succubus, and once his sole companion in his journeys through Silithus. She appeared in a show of purple light. Standing at near human height, with a body pink of skin, Lynona was a mix of sexy and deadly. Her voluptuous form was further emphasized by the tight bodice of leather and unconcealing bottoms. She was black of hair, blue of eye, with two horns peaked up above her forehead and bat wings at the back. Cloven feet and barbed tail completed the assembly of demonic appendages, with a standard pattern of red tattooed upon her thighs.

Lynona came with a smirk on her lips, only moments later was that a deep frown. Her eyes flashed as she looked to Sin and then the naked Sekara, and he noticed her hands clenching her coiled whip tightly. "What is going on here, master?" There was a dangerous lilt to the way she addressed him.

Sin knew her to be the jealous type. At some time in the war she had "fallen in love with him," between being allowed to pour fourth her full malice and cruelty to bound victims in interrogation to their fighting back to back in the most dire of situations. The bond between them had become strong, and Sin hoped she could be trusted to diagnose whatever was happening to his mind.

"I was hoping you could tell me," he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut as his hand returned to his forehead. The water was soothing.

Lynona's voice was hard and unpleasant. "That's a qiraji whore, isn't it? What were you doing with her, Sin de Rath?" His eyes opened, looked into hers passively. Their stare held until Lynona jolted, her expression opening to surprise. "Y-Your mind! What did _she_ do?" The last was hissed, and she whirled towards the qiraji with her whip uncoiling to the floor. One hoof stepped towards the naked Battleguard.

"You will stop there, Lynona," Sin commanded coolly, throwing authority into his voice. "Tell me what you feel."

"Stop here? Stop here? I'll tell you what I feel, you befuddled fool; I feel that you have no hold over my will anymore! Your mind, your will, your control has been rent apart like the unsummoning of Claxius. You have allowed her what no servant of C'Thun could manage! If you want to keep what little remains of your great self, you will let me slay this tart and begin your recovery!"

"You'll do no such thing," he whispered, sighing. "I've tangled myself in affairs far beyond what we've known before. They have my word."

The succubus' fists balled up tightly as she turned back to him. Her pretty mouth was tense and set in a deep frown, while her bright eyes seemed to glisten. She was always a passionate one. Quietly, she hissed, "Your _word_ only has meaning if you have the _will_ to keep it. Lo!" Shadow magic built in her hands, and she cast her spell over him.

A seduction. Sin let it hit him, knowing it had never worked before. Like a bucket of ice dropping over him, his skin crawled and his body froze. Sin vaguely suspected it, but the seduction wrapped around him tightly and snared him sure, slipping past the cracks of his defenses like water through dry ground. The shock of finding himself trapped penetrated his calm, and he began the work of throwing off the iron blanket wrapped around him.

Outside of Sin's shadow-wrapped calm though, his body immediately grew aroused by Lynona's presence. His eyes couldn't leave hers, and her body was like the figure of a goddess. It always had been, really. He began to feel unworthy of her, unworthy of the companionship, and he wondered how she had stayed with him so long.

It was clear though that Lynona could still feel his mind and she picked up the extent of her success over him. He was the master of them no longer. A tear spilled from her eye, a glistening orange trail in the hive light, and then her expression hardened. Sin understood the significance, deep in his impenetrable shell, and he thought loudly, hoping she could hear, _I'm sorry._ The guilt at least trickled through.

"You... You do not have the right to call upon my true name anymore," she told him, choking at the first part but smoothing out. "For the sake of all that we were, I will not kill you now, while you are defenseless before me, but should you call upon my name again, with our contract voided, I will cut open your throat without reluctance."

Still with her hand extended towards him, Lynona shot a spiteful look at Sekara and the present Battleguards. The qiraji were motionless during the proceeds. "But before I go, Sin, I will take from you the one thing you always denied me. And I will have them watch." She looked to him again, and just as he managed a hook under her magic and was about to rip it away, the succubus' terrible beauty shown magnificently, and she thrust her fist at him. The spell crushed down even tighter, strangling him, and she shrieked, "Stop fighting, you miserable, weak insect!"

This was what his mind was once capable of keeping out? Sin gasped and fell to his knees in the pool, crushed by the weight of her grip. It seemed impossible for anything to withstand such a heavy mental attack. Was he truly that weak?

With angry, sharp motions, Lynona began to undo her armor and throw it aside, slowly walking towards him. When she was to him, naked and gorgeous, her tears were more obvious, masked only by her fury. He knew what she wanted, and he knew he couldn't stop her from taking it now. He didn't think he would, even without her Seduction.

Sometime during the war, Lynona had grown from a tool into a friend. She had been the one constant in that period, with endless cultist-infiltration and betrayal. They were a team, often working alone be it in battle or interrogation. Lynona would give up her life in his stead when it came to it, knowing he could bring her back. He remembered well the night she confessed her love to him, and his verbal disregard, thinking the lustful maiden mistaken.

All of his demons had their respective uses, but he always preferred her. She was the only one he trusted, as an individual rather than an enslaved tool... Light, was he truly losing her here?

_I will have you back,_ he vowed from his remote, untouched location. As a warlock, he had a wicked possessive streak when it came to the control game. _I will fix this._ He felt a sunbrust of warmth from her, through their shaken bond – a strand of joy and hope within her disappointment and betrayal and rage. Lynona paused to whisper, "You better. I'll be waiting."

When she was finished with him, she canceled her summoning without another word. Sin floated in the water after, lost in thought, before bathing himself again automatically. His fingers and toes were pruned from the long duration, but that was the furthest thing from his mind. He had actually mustered the strength to throw of the charm before the end, especially with Lynona distracted, but he'd let her finish anyways.

He remembered vaguely the way Drooshon had misbehaved, advancing upon Sekara without orders, the last summoning, along with his internal reluctance to bring out the headstrong dreadsteed when meeting the cultists on the sands. With the exceptions of his felsteed and maybe Quztal, his imp, his demons were lost to him until he could return in place his mental defenses. That also meant that until then, his mind was split open for any mental influence, old god or otherwise.

That needed to change.

The shadow-trick would be kept wrapped around him like a bandage. He decided to take up meditation again, like in his youth, and cut down his use for shadow and fel arcane. By the Light and Shadow, everything about being a warlock required _control_, and he now lacked it. He had fallen. A fallen warlock. Sin de Rath the Mad – couldn't things just be that easy?

Looking up at the silent Battleguards, Sin commanded shortly, "Ressact, beginning immediately you will teach Sekara the way of tongues." He shivered in the cool water involuntarily, remembering suddenly the silent gazes of all of them fixed upon him and Lynona as she used him. Alas...

He may have lost his demons, but he was not without his subordinate hands yet. The qiraji would just have to take their place as he recovered. Now, he had work to do. Without further hesitation, he stood from the water and began collecting his clothes. The final article was the tan cloak, and he threw it around his shoulders.

XxX

Fathers. Mother.

Sin de Rath took the news sitting down – reclining, really, and he gave no startled reaction at it. The qiraji Prophets, "fathers," had been reported as slain to the last, but so had all of the Queens, "mothers," and they had kept one barely alive. Wily, charismatic, domineering fathers – Sin knew he would need to be especially careful now; if he encountered a father, it could break into his mind easily.

"Word on the wind is, the qiraji are almost finished gathering their forces. The silithid have been recruited, and they are going to bring the whole queen out, despite the Watchers. The elves have their warning, and for the sake of this planet, I hope they have taken the proper precautions for when the tide comes to a head in this storm."

Presently, Sin paced before the collected bandits that were once cultists and their leaders. His cloak danced in the gusts, swirling colors and briefly hiding him from view as it could. He did not know what the bandits would do after escaping, if they would return to their dark holes and hear of the old god, if they would remain bandits, or if they might start anew somewhere. That was not his concern.

Behind him was Hive'Ashi, their final base and camp before the mad rush out.

"The time comes soon where they will break free, so we must act now to blind the Watchers and spread the elves thin. To successfully escape this blighted desert, we will need near perfect coordination, so let me dispel your fears now. As I've discussed with your leaders already, I fully intend to leave with each and everyone of you. However, if you do not arrive when we depart, we go without you.

"That means for those in the deep south, you will face a great race. For the operations there, there is no better leader than the Storm of the South, and with him will be Jern, called the Wind of the North. They know already what to do. With you I am sending Battleguards, for mobility and aerial work, and so you know my good faith. Leave with them for accurate timing on your own fleet."

He rounded upon the skeleton standing at the front, with many more behind him. "Handon, you know your work, starting from Southwind Village. Keep your blades sharp and feet quiet. Miko, the northern operations are yours, and you will remain here with me to guide until the break, and lead if I must act elsewhere. If any of you attempt to take the decisions into your own hands, these plans will fail, and we are all doomed to remain here, hunted to the last."

The complete unification of the enemies of Silithus behind him. Sin's lips turned up in a smile, seeing the straight shoulders of the cultists and the nodding heads. Miko kept his hood up against the sun, but his youthful smirk was obvious on his tan face, while Jern's freckle-blasted and red-bearded one remained somber. The latter was an idealist and hearted leader, and despite his former intentions of settling the land he was glad to leave under a solid plan.

The sun reached its peak as the bandits organized themselves into cells and parties. The heat was ungodly, baking Sin even inside his light cloak, but such was home. The bandits undertook it with equal grim resolve. Water was passed in large enough quantities to last the travelers. Quietly, Sin spoke to the qiraji, informing them of what they would do and when, using specific events as measurements of time, and two dozen floated out of the hive to accompany the bandits.

Sin watched them leave, nearly three fourths of his gathered forces. He noticed Miko continued to stare at him, eyes shrouded by his hood, and shrugged off the attention. Something itched at his peripheral, leading him to glance upon the eastern dune, but he saw nothing. Sniffing about the tricks of the mind, he glanced south at the dot that was Cenarion Hold and the rock it rested upon. The elves were watching them now, restricted in action by the superiors.

Soon there would be panic. Soon there would be noise, and all those eyes would be fixed in every direction but his own. All but perhaps one pair, and they did not possess the ability to stop him.

"_Are you not afraid that our actions might allow the qiraji to break free with the Queen? You tell the elves to prepare, then work to undermine all of their preparations. If they are spread too thin when the hammer meets the anvil..."_

The memory floated up as if Darnin was speaking just across from him again. Frowning, Sin turned from the sun-blasted sands and stepped towards the hive. _My how things have changed, to enter one as an ally_. The sudden recollection of the conversation, flashback really – visuals and all – was not an isolated occurrence. He noticed lately that since his barriers had cracked open, his mind seemed scattered, and memories came and left without prompting.

Pulling the shadows tighter around him, lurking with the creatures of the dark now, he stepped down the cavernous opening and began to descend. Control of himself would be maintained. Into the hive he moved, to lurk with the monsters within.

A storm was brewing in the desert. Sin knew them from Tanaris, by the change in the air alone. A storm of sand and winds that could flay the skin and flesh from the bones, if left unprotected. The qiraji would use it to escape, and the elves, no matter how hardy, would be hard pressed to defend with it. Men and women were going to die for his decisions.

A storm was brewing.

XxX

_To Commander Linsai,_

_You knew who you were ordering me to Watch. You knew from the registration at the gates that he had come for the inspection, that this warlock is that warlock from the war, yet you refrained from telling me. Elune preserve us for your decision. May she preserve us all if he falls under sway of the old gods._

_The qiraji will ride on the winds of the sandstorm, and the Gladiators will be accompanied by Prophets in an attempt to escort out a living Queen. Queen's presence has been confirmed. The Queen will be the centerfold of the charge._

_Report, activity: Sinde Rath has plotted to bottle the qiraji Gladiator escape east to Hive'Regal, then north between Southwind Village and the Swarming Pillar, before a straight line to be choked at the canyon below Staghelm Point. Advise mounting defense at choke, trust in Sinde Rath's strategy. Sinde Rath, Battleguard, and cultist escape to be made north of Staghelm Point. Advise sparing men to reinforce the area and tower. They will use the storm for cover. Will not wait it out._

_Report, Sinde Rath: Classified warlock, veteran of the War of Shifting Sands, confirmed for former ally and close confident of the Watchers. Titled 'The Mad.' Affiliation remains independent, private observation suggests unswayed by old gods. Mental status unreliable, confirmed by his own demon that qiraji communication has broken mental fortitude. Suspect susceptibility to mental coercion. Has lost control of his demonic servants for this weakness. Remains charismatic and leading figure, displays trust for the qiraji Battleguards. Battleguards remain devoted to him._

_Report, other:_

_Conclusion: Sinde Rath remains faithful to his word shared with us. His loyalty remains with himself, though that may change through ill contact. Planned escape of the Battleguards will be successful without direct action in counter._

_Proposed action: Fortify Staghelm Point and mountain path to block escape. Assuming successful bypass of Sinde Rath and Battleguards, give me orders to kill in suspicion._

_Or give me orders to let them go._

_May Elune be with us all,_

_-Sentinel Narelle Blackmoon_

XxX

"Here we are, maybe half a decade later, working side by side. By all the blighted nights..."

Darnin rasped a laugh under his breath. His keen eyes never left the edges of the far dunes, watching for even the smallest darkness of a scouting head. Beside him, he knew Jern would be doing the same, or perhaps watching for something else that he didn't suspect. Fanned behind them were thirty men, from both of their camps.

Though neither suspected any ears around for leagues, they spoke in under-breath whispers, barely differentiable from the dune-winds. "I recall years ago, requesting a transfer to your camp – every man under Commander Jern brought great pleasure to the great master, so it was said – but after my small series of successes, the prophet told me to remain in the south. We needed the ability down here. Never did I think I might stand beside you with the greatest whispered name in this blighted desert."

A couple of worn leather husks, the two of them. Darnin wasn't even thirty years yet, but the desert made an old man out of him. Red-skinned Jern was no better, nearly comically inhuman with all his freckles, dark eyes, and dusty hair.

Jern hummed, like the rumble of an earthquake in the mountains. "The war was full of heroes and villains both, on either side. I didn't come to notice you until half of my men were dead and water-bled when I tried expanding south, long after. Storm of the South my boys called you, a sort of dualism to my own."

"Speaking of villains, how about the Specter that has us all by the balls? If Handon had bowels, he would have shat himself when that warlock donned the cloak. I find it difficult to believe that it is he who intends to see us out of our prison."

"I too find it difficult to trust him. Forgetting who he is, forgetting the words he himself seared in our minds from his 'visits,' there is much he is not telling us. So the qiraji are all trying to leave at once, Battleguards and the rest, but what is the reason for this sudden rush? Why reveal their preserved Queen and rush into the maws of the elves, rather than slowly build up again?"

Darnin grunted in displeasure. "We are not bound in trust here, but necessity. He needs us to escape, for whatever his reasons, and he knows we need him. The qiraji were nesting with the corpse of C'Thun himself, that wretch we once called great. Perhaps the decomposition of the corpse of an old god poisons the land and air, or from it spawns new creatures of darkness worse than what they design. The Specter of the Sands might despise us for our side of the war, but he was always a man of his word. Of honor."

Jern spat on the sand – the loudest sound between them yet. A disgusting waste of water, but that made the action that much more significant. "Not honor. Our defeat was largely rooted in his ability to behave dishonorably. Pulling men and women off the streets at night, stealing into their homes, to torture them until they spilled answers. We lost our infiltrators nearly to the last man – not to mention those he directly engaged in the sands. I watched him slay a prophet with just his demons, during the rally to burn their supply depot."

"They say he was raised by goblins," Darnin mentioned. "Nothing is more sacred and unbreakable than a contract to him, and the elves held the deed to his name. That is why I trust our safe delivery, and why I believe you do as well. And no matter our grudging about our defeat in the war, it is in the past, along with our ambitions. A man who sacrifices good for necessity too is he who makes the best leader."

"The Twilight's Hammer." Jern sighed the name, shaking his head briefly. "We were fools to get swept into the rush of their ideals. I believed in their word, their mission, and I fought to see that better world, under a proper ruler. Let the races of the world suffer for a day, and then let us enjoy a thousand years of golden peace. I should have suspected, from the lack of similar altruism from every other clansman, the truth of it, but I chose to blind myself."

"You regret the clan?" Darnin asked, surprised. In truth, this was his first real conversation with his rival counterpart. "You don't seek to rejoin them with our freedom from the desert?"

The redheaded man huffed. "There is nothing there for us. Nihilistic fools, the lot of us, only here to squander power and sow misery. C'Thun was butchered in his own cozy home – you think _that_ has the proposed power to hold the world in peace, and us the followers in favor? No, I will leave and start a new life elsewhere. If any choose to still follow me, then we will build a home somewhere safe, and we will have the peace I was promised."

Darnin rolled his shoulders. "I'll happily leave the cult in the dust, but the bandit life has grown on me. Battle, ambush, and taking the lives of men has become a part of me. If I were to try to rejoin 'proper' society, I'd try for soldiering, and kill the man that calls me unfit for combat."

Jern laughed softly. "I was right then to try to kill you, in hopes of unifying us in Silithus. You belong with scum like Miko, water-bled and rotting in the sand."

The reminder of the young upstart sent Darnin into silence. A prior conversation, a whispered plan and ideas... No, he would not tell Jern. The other man could not be trusted. None of them could. Sin de Rath the Mad, the Specter of the Sands, thought them all held like stones in a sack, but in truth this was the largest game of cloak and dagger since the war itself. The truth would come in a fountain of blood.

XxX

"_Angry? Why are you angry, my son?"_

"_It is disgusting! The arcane is something so beautiful and powerful, to be held and enjoyed, but this is so dispassionate and cold. I hate that it reaches for my mind with its reeking, oily hands, leaves behind disgusting touches and blight. I hate what it makes me want to do. It is not the control meant to handle magic, but control of your mind, just to use it properly. It is no longer the art I love."_

"_My son, I have told you, the shadow is not for everyone. A true warlock is a sorcerer first. I can teach you the ways of a mage instead."_

"_No... I will keep on. But I hate it. I feel like the Cartel merchants, controlling magic as coldly and intricately as they do business."_

A lovely smile, paired with the wicked glint in her dark eyes. She was proud of him, for what he said, though he did not know why. _"If you will keep on, then recall, my son, that the goblins love business, no matter what they must do. Because the art to them is the profits, not the actions to get them. Do not look at the shadow and fel as art, but as the paint. The true art is what they produce, the reward what all that control and effort gives in return."_

Control. It was the cornerstone of everything warlock. Should a holy book be written of their practices, it would be the first law. Without control, there was no warlock. Even those Stormwind upstarts running around the world understood it, despite forgetting what would be the second law: a warlock was a sorcerer first. They knew the arts of shadow and demonology well, but they did not fully grasp the world of arcane.

Foot bathing was a practice from home. Perhaps that is what had sparked the flashback, between he and his mother, many years ago. He sat washing the sand and dust from his feet at the qiraji bathing hole. With him were the usual escorts, Sekara, Ressact, a messenger, and three protectors. The winds had kicked up outside, the North Wind as it was called in this desert – where Jern had received his title – and it heralded the approaching sandstorm.

Only a day had passed since everyone had departed south. The storm would reach them first, and perhaps two days later it would reach Ahn'Qiraj. Then the fireworks would begin. Trying to control everything was beginning to take its strain. It had been a long time since Sin had felt overwhelmed, mainly because control had always been his forte.

"Sceeeeh," Sekara shrieked from the side.

His name, best as she could manage so far. Sin debated telling her to press her tongue against the roof of her mouth for the 'n' sound, but ultimately refrained. "Do the qiraji ever feel overwhelmed?"

There was a moment of silence from them, until Ressact muttered, "What is the meaning of 'overwhelmed?'"

Sin let his feet fall back into the water, free of dirt finally. "Like when things move too fast, or you try to control more than you are able to. Or if you need to do seven things, but you are only able to handle three. That feeling of pressure."

"We do only as we are told. It is the decision of our master if the tasks are too much for one sister."

"That's a 'no' then," he sighed.

"Sceeeen," Sekara repeated insistently, though smoother than before.

Ressact's soft voice followed, "Will you tell now about what happened with the pink-skin? Sekara wishes to know what Sekara did."

Since the events at the Hive'Zora waterhole, where Lynona had accused Sekara of ruining his mind and Sin forbade her the use the bond with him, the qiraji woman had asked through Ressact to know what she had done. Sin had avoided the question, in a brooding mood at the reminder, but he decided finally she had a right to know. "You told me once that Sekara was chosen to find help because it was she who discovered how to form the qiraji mental bond with other mortals.

"That bond is extraordinary, so fascinating and even beautiful. However, my brain, and I fear this is true for all mortals, was not meant to support such a connection. Like an engineered machine, our brains are not properly wired for it, and forcing it upon us is like trying to rewire how we think. As a warlock, my mind was set in a very particular way, meant to keep out foreign influences and maintain perfect control of myself, my thoughts and actions, spell work, and those that serve my will. By forcing past those barriers and then attempting to set my mind up in a manner akin to yours, Sekara had caused great damage to me, and I will need much time to recover."

Silence followed his announcement, so he continued a step further: "The 'pink skin' you saw was the succubus Lynona, a friend and once bound to my will. By removing my mental barriers, I have lost control of her and most of my other demons, as well as the ability to safely handle shadow magics. I have... fallen as a warlock."

Sin stood from the water edge and faced them. His cloak shifted dark colors in the hive around him. The two qiraji made brief eye contact, and Ressact voiced, "Sekara sends sadness and pleasure for your 'falling.'"

Meeting the teal eyes of Sekara, Sin felt he understood her reasons for both, even without the bond. Though the 'rewiring' was detrimental, it and the looks into her mind gave insight to qiraji temperaments and thoughts. He could imagine the reply as if she were inside his mind: sadness, coming from Sekara, for harming Sin de Rath, and warmth from Sekara, for Sin de Rath was now like the sisters. It was a new bond between them.

"Sin de Rath's weapon was the shadow magic. Will you have us fight for you?" Ressact asked. From the side, Sekara agreed, "Yeeshhh!" She was actually quite close with that one.

She was asking if he was disarmed and needed their protection, now more than ever. Him, disarmed. Sin de Rath smiled.

* * *

AN: For the most part, Sin's chapters don't need any revising, at least in my current opinion. Makes it a nice relaxed way of posting without extra work on old writings. I will say though, at this point I never fully realized the _significance_ Sin was going to have on this story. I mean the guy is just dripping in roots with old gods, has a hand in madness, a deliberate and peculiar name, dabbles in the darkest arts known to Azeroth, is involved with the Twisting Nether... and on a story with this plot, I didn't foresee him as the centerpiece to it all?

I mean, if we are paralleling Avengers here, he's the flipping Iron Man... Come to think of it, I thought everyone was covered save for Black Widow because she's non-essential, but Genveera will take that place nicely. Actually, she'll take that place very nicely. Wow.


	6. Chapter 4: The Storm

reality deviant: On someone becoming a new qiraji queen, let's not jump the gun here. I've got plans around that subject, but way later. :) The figurative Black Widow, if we were playing a categorization game here, is Genveera, who was introduced already in Thomas' chapter. She's also called "the Swan." Finally, on the upgraded warlock demons, I've already began considering it. This story was started before Mists was released and before I heard anything on it, but already I'm thinking of how I might add in the Klaxxi (a third faction of old god minions, like the qiraji and nerubians, found in the Dread Wastes on Pandaria). I've considered Sin having other demons, but lore-wise, warlocks get them through the "Grimoire of Supremacy," which was administered to trainee's following the Cataclysm. In Stormwind, there's a book on a table across from the warlock trainers at the moment that describes this. The idea lays on the backburner for now.

**Note:** In game and lore, the only references to qiraji reproduction are breeding grounds within Ahn'qiraj and the hive. That I've seen, this is only shown once, just above Buru the Gorger, there is a massive, stationary silithid that is laying eggs – and, strangely, we never actually kill this figure. According to the Prophecy of C'Thun, the old god had made qiraji from the silithid, so what he did for their reproduction is up to question. I deemed it C'Thun entitling these queens to lay eggs, which can be silithid or qiraji. That is the "Queen" or "Mother" I've been referring to in Sin's chapters.

* * *

Chapter 4

_The Storm_

* * *

X Fallen X

"_Elune blind him! Blind them all!" Linsai roared. "Send out every owl we have! Abandon southern Silithus! All riders to the Bones of Grakkarond! We harry them to the choke!"_

"_But the bandits-"_

"_Forget them! Their mission is escape, not assistance! Trust in Sentinel Narelle!"_

The sandstorm raged strong and true. Winds kicked sand into walls and chipped away inches of stone, rounding edges and flattening impressions. One sand worm tried burrowing quickly, too late in its last catch of food, but a gust of wind sheered away a hole in its flank and spilled dark blood – vanishing in the storm before it even touched the ground. A second gust cut away to the bone, leaving the worm writhing fiercely, head still tucked safely under, before the relentless winds sawed away the rest of its flesh. Though the white spine still whipped and flailed about in the wind, it died unnoticed.

The sounds of deep, gruff panting and the trample of heavy feet were the only signs of movement in Ahn'Qiraj. The qiraji barreled out of gates unobstructed in a densely packed mass of Gladiators. Hundreds of the hulking muscle-bound behemoths remained for the rush. At the center of the pack was the massive queen, bright in her oranges and blues for carapace, carried by a band of stronger worker silithid. Flanking her were two Prophets, standing tall and proud and skittering forward at good pace with the rest of the warriors.

More had accompanied them for the heavy arm of the hammer. A dozen Battleguards buzzed forward, leading fifty more silithid in the skies for cover, while beetles, battle tanks, and the remaining army of workers filled any gap they could. The wind was soaked unnoticed by the Gladiators, protecting those behind them. Though the Battleguards flew low, they were knocked back and forth with each gust. Armor and thick cloaks covered all of their bodies now, but one particular sand-laced gust punctured enough holes in a silithid's wings to sent it wheeling into the sand, left to die alone.

Watching from a bluff was a single night elf, grim. So the warning of Sin de Rath the Mad came to pass. Elune forbid the rest be true, that a third old god had surfaced, so soon after the defeat of Yogg'Saron and C'Thun. One was enough for any lifetime.

With his thick cloak wrapped tightly around him, the night elf turned away and shuffled to his supplies. The storm made it difficult to search through, but he soon found a white, opaque crystal and activated the magic within. Immediately, a purple light grew within it, and all of its sibling crystals. The message had been sent:

The qiraji were on the move.

XxX

"_Report! What is the news of the east? Have our preparations finished for the pincer when they pass through?" Commander Linsai demanded, his back to the fury of the sandstorm._

_The messenger sucked in a breath, still exhausted from his run through the storm, and gasped out, "Commander, our defenses have been smashed apart and sent in retreat to the choke below Staghelm Point."_

_The purple skinned elf showed no signs of his fury beyond the tightening grip of his fist. The pop of knuckles was lost in the howling wind. "Explain."_

"_Our team at Southwind was ambushed by skeletons and ghosts, the work of Sin de Rath no doubt, and they raised racket to summon the silithid from under the feet of the village. It was flee or be destroyed. Worse, sir, scouts picked up qiraji Battleguards swarming around the Swarming Pillar, and they've banded together a large force of silithid to rally with those at Southwind."_

_Sin de Rath... Linsai sent the messenger away for rest, then faced the storm once again with the predatory eyes of a hawk. Again and again their preparations were being picked apart by the very one who issued their ordering. The choke would not fail nor their walls fall, but the battle will now be far more difficult without the traps beforehand. And this army of silithid under the madman's qiraji – is this his moment of betrayal? Will they band together for a hammer larger than anything seen since the war itself?_

_Abruptly, his gold eyes widened as he noticed something among the sands. A moving shape, hidden by more than just the storm but by a simple spell of camouflage. It stopped in the midst of the town's remaining Watchers and faced him. It took but a moment to realize: Sin de Rath, and he was watching him._

_Linsai was about to scream orders to seize the warlock, but he knew it would get lost in the howling winds. The warlock seemed to know that too, boldly letting himself be seen in this challenge. Their stare held for a heavy moment, another, and in an especially thick gust of dust and sand, the cloaked figure vanished entirely, like a ghost._

_Sin de Rath..._

"Look you fly-winged slattern, this isn't in my job description," Handon growled. His white bones rattled at the constant pelting of the sands, though the undead magic that kept him alive protected them from further wear. Around him and his band of skeletons were a couple scores of silithid, shuffling about and huddling through the storm, while the Battleguards remained in the center with him.

The bug-eyed freak looked to him without any emotion, unnerving as they were, and she hissed in their rattling, shrieking voices, "You're work is done, no-flesh. You will follow Nzeeka in returning to Sin de Rath. My sister will maintain ambush before following."

That took some of the tension out of his fuzed spine. He'd be getting the hell out of here with the bugs and Specter; they were genuine, just as had Darnin promised. He left his cleaver sheathed, saying, "Let's be off then."

The undead and Battleguards departed, leaving behind a single qiraji Battleguard with the silithid. She waited patiently among the storm, huddled with the rest but watching the south. The workers reacted at the first sensations through the ground, sending alarm through the rest of the silithid, and the Battleguard straightened, tightening the psychic chains around the siblings around her.

Before she could even see the attackers, the mental strikes of the Fathers laced into her mind and control over the silithid. The All-Mind easily deflected the attacks, keeping her purpose narrow, and the silithid remained bound to it. For a few short minutes they remained still, waiting out the mental attacks, and then the first drone saw the approaching charge.

The silithid, buried partially under the sand, waited until the Brothers and the rest were close, and then the Battleguard gave the command to attack. They burrowed out the sand in great rushes, leaving behind sink holes and sand-traps, and in seconds, a shrieking and roaring battle erupted and the charge ground to an impromptu halt.

Satisfied, the Battleguard tied up the control over her silithid like knotting rope and followed her sisters north.

"_Where are our Outriders? They should have abandoned their policing the south half a day ago." Linsai was weary now. It had been three days since he had seen a bed, and half that since he had even left the command room and watch tower. The Gladiators had left Ahn'qiraj twenty hours ago and were presently at the half way mark, between Southwind and the Swarming Pillar, where Sin de Rath's qiraji had gathered the last of the desert's silithid in wait._

_The desert was large and the escape slow, leaving the stress of it a persistent thing that seemed to be adding wrinkles each hour. Between the bandits, qiraji, and silithid, there were perhaps a thousand enemies in motion total, and he had an equal number of Watchers at the choke waiting. Against his trained men, even united the enemy had no chance, but he could not rest until it was done._

_At worst, in two days hippogryph riders from Feathermoon would arrive to assist in the defense and the tracking/elimination of any mobile threats._

_Just then, a messenger broke into their council, still panting and painted with dust. About damned time. "Commander, news from the east! The silithid gathered by Sin de Rath are attacking the fleeing Gladiators, and the escape has been halted! Also!" The man gasped a few more breaths, looking about to faint. "Also, we've spotted our Outriders! The bandits had ambushed them after they were ordered to Grakkarond, and now they've let our men go to... to join the battle!"_

"So I'm sure you boys and girls want some intel," Darnin hollered over the storm. His face was veiled apart from two slits for the eyes, as the sandstorm was still unrelenting. He remembered in part that the wind stones they had once tried mining had much to do with the intensity and length of Silithus' storms.

Before him were twenty night elf Watchers and their tiger mounts, freed from any restraints and sharpening their weapons. The elves were kept trained on by bows and readied swords, with Darnin and Jern standing the closest, to speak to them.

"About two hundred yards that way is a massive battle between silithid and your runaway qiraji, if our guys have done everything right. You'd do well to keep your distance and harry as you were ordered. If you are feeling fond of being foolish, you can chase after us, but remember that even though we desire freedom from here, we don't want _those_ qiraji getting out either! Good luck, you purple-skinned bastards!"

The Watchers sheathed their weapons and mounted up immediately, the tigers shaking some of the dust and sand out of their fur. The saddles had to be killer with all the sand trapped under them. The one that led them nodded at the two bandit leaders, saying, "The Wind of the North and the Storm of the South. Your outmaneuvering of us will not be forgotten, no matter the end here. If only we had you to lead us in times of peril."

"Get moving, you sentimental long-eared buffoon!" Jern bellowed, "Before the qiraji finish feasting on those silithid's bodies!"

The night elf nodded, snapping his tiger into action. "Riders, move out!" They turned and pounced in the direction of the battle. The bandit's bows did not lower until sight of the riders were lost in the storm.

"So the Specter has given us a few hours time before the storm starts again! Let's the get hell out of here!" Darnin shouted to Jern, and both men turned to begin moving north.

The men scrambled to ready themselves, but as they did, Jern began searching wildly. "Where the fuck are the Battleguards?"

Darnin searched too, finding only bandits around them. He cursed loudly, mentioning, "Assume the worse! Let's get back to Miko, before they have a chance to turn on us!"

Banded together, both men and their followers began running through the storm. They moved slowly but surely, hardened by the desert to survive through the intense conditions. However, they had barely mounted the first sand dune out of their hole before Darnin stopped Jern with his hand. He pointed out into the swirling winds.

At the edge of the next dune, a huddle of a dozen lithe shapes could be seen. The qiraji Battleguards were there, waiting, and they gestured the bandits to hurry on. The two men shared a look, then quickened forward.

XxX

The beast was nearly blind.

The sandstorm had been a surprising help, but even so Sin's plan had progressed marvelously. Apparently the Watchers had lost sight of Handon's undead early on, and the ambush at Southwind Village had been a great success. The south Watch had spread itself thin in the chasing of ghosts from Jern and Darnin, and when the orders came to retreat, they had even managed to capture the Outriders to use their own way.

In the north, Sin and Miko's men had hit the northern Watches. They razed outposts, snake holes, and sent the Watching elves running off into the sand naked to regroup and resupply, leaving the area nearly entirely free from view. Sin was the largest contributor there, lurking among the storm himself to ambush the elves. He knew that if he had Miko doing it, there would be no survivors.

Specter of the Sands had been his nickname among the cultists during the war, from the way he moved and attacked, then was gone without a trace. The night elves, finding themselves in the same predicament, now labeled him _Ghost_ in the kaldorei tongue. It had since spread to Common in their reports of him, always with "Sinde Rath the Mad."

The proper writing of a sand-dweller's name was "Sin de'Rath the Mad," the fools. Alas...

Everything was moving according to his designs. Handon had just returned, meaning the others would be just behind, to arrive in the hour. Miko had the bandits gathering their supplies ready for carry on the surface, while Sin was meant to be gathering the Battleguards for the final travel from inside the hive. He had carefully withdrawn all of the other Battleguards inside too, with Nzeeka outside to take in the final few from the bandit's coming.

Just then, there was the telltale roar of many Battleguards in travel from the organic tunnels of the hive. Sin stood to his feet in a swirl of shifting colors, and idly he checked inside his cloak for the object at his waist. It was clear and contained still. Nzeeka and the other Battleguards swarmed inside the chamber, joining the rest of the qiraji, and they settled to their feet to ease up the noise.

With a smile, Sin handed Sekara his pack for carry, adding, "Take good care of that, darlin'. Its contents are more valuable than anyone knows."

She held it between the nubs of her arms, nodding quickly. She wore no helmet or veil now, the only among the others. "Yeh'ess," she hissed.

Finally, Sin scooped up his worn staff and began to make his way out. The Battleguards would follow him in a few minutes, when he was through with arranging the bandits.

Sin ascended from the hive to see the scores of bandits waiting for him. Every man and woman, in their dirty rags and patched armor, stared at him with solemn silence in the midst of the dying sandstorm. At the forefront stood Miko with Jern and Darnin, and behind Darnin was Handon, his right-hand man.

Strangely, Sin's mind felt lighter, emptier, as if in a dream. Not the trance of before, but things had a blunted quality to it. He moved with the flow of the moment, watching it really; it felt like he was in the high of an opiate. He was speaking now.

"You have done well, and the time of escape is nigh. Suppose two hours before the qiraji hit the wall. Our route is a three hour march at a moderate walk, so by moving quickly, we can watch the start of the show, the movement of the Watchers as they fix their gaze upon the qiraji, then move north around them through the mountain paths, into the luscious lands of Un'Goro. Between two hundred hardened desert-dwellers and one hundred agile Battleguards, the final wall will stand no chance against our..."

He trailed off, nearly intentionally, as the scene shifted moods when every bandit drew their weapons, still facing him. Sin had half a mind to continue watching the progression of his theater play, but he quickly resumed complete control of his body and actions, thrusting himself into the present predicament.

Jern, however, turned to look, frown furrowing deep lines in his sun-blasted face beneath his beard. "Miko, you filth-blooded leech, what have you done?"

The hooded upstart stepped forward, arms spreading out in grand gesture, as bandits from behind sprinted forward to encircle Sin. Reluctantly, Darnin and Handon followed him. "Do not think that through our temporary alliance, we have forgotten who you are, Specter, nor what you have done to us. In the south, Darnin watched you flay the skin off of the previous chief, just to flaunt off your power and intimidate us. In the north too, Jern here sent valued friends to infiltrate the elves, and it was you who ferreted them out and spilled their blood into the sands. My sister was one of them, and you cut out her throat."

At blade point now, Sin let them rip away his staff, the black trails of smoke vanishing from the green crystal tip with a puff. He refused raising his hands in surrender, nor did he show any concern at the predicament. Miko noticed, throwing aside his veil and sneering. "You think those qiraji whores will rescue you now? We no longer have need for you and your plans; the way through the desert is clear now, thanks to you. Behold!"

Sin followed the path of Miko's finger to see a dwarf near the hive, and the stout man pressed down on pump-ignition. Shortly after, there followed explosions from deep within the hive, seen with great plumes of smoke and organic debris. Unflinching when the gunk was vomited from the cave mouth over him and his captors, Sin watched the entrance and tunnels collapse into themselves, trapping the Battleguards underground.

"You're a rotten fool, Miko," Jern groaned, but he made no action or order to oppose the change of events. He knew which hand held the cards presently. "And you, Darnin, for following through with this."

The wiry and leathery man did not give reaction to the accusation, still watching Miko and Sin through the storm, still veiled with slits for eyes. Miko commanded that Sin's warlock staff be snapped in half, and it did with a tremendous crack, spitting lightning into the sands around the undead girl that did it. White veins of glass were left in the wake, quickly covered by the ongoing winds.

Victoriously, Miko continued, crying over the winds, "And now the time for our vengeance is at hand, Sin de Rath the Mad. Enjoy the cold hand of the void!"

Half of bandits swung back, ready to skewer Sin all at once. His hand jumped inside his cloak, taking a step back in the stance his father had beat into his skull, but even as he drew it, he noticed the odd movements of the other half of bandits. They turned upon their comrades, gutting them clean through without hesitation, just as Sin's aged six-shooter trained on Miko.

The young leader's eyes widened at the turn of events as abruptly many of the bandits betrayed their brothers and sisters and cut them down without remorse. Handon and Jern seemed equally surprised, and their respective followers drew arms and aimed them at the other groups suspiciously.

By then, the treachery was revealed to fall in Darnin's hands. In two swift motions he took Miko's legs from under him and held him at knife point. Precise motions, striking quick as a rattler. The cunning man glanced up at Sin and the pistol, seeming to smile with just his eyes over the veil. "I see that perhaps my intervention wasn't necessary at all. I have underestimated you once again."

Sin shrugged but kept the weapon aimed. "I didn't exactly hold the upper hand either way, with just this bottle-blaster."

"Traitor!" Miko hissed. "You know what he is hiding. You know what is to come. He will-" Darnin cut him off, in the literal manner. It took only a matter of seconds before the former cultist quit thrashing, spilling his blood onto the sands.

While cleaning off his knife, Darnin said, "Forgive the brief interruption, Specter. My men will begin excavating the qiraji from the tunnels immediately." He gestured the bloodied bandits still surrounding Sin to retreat back.

"Spare yourself the effort," Sin told him, finally lowering his gun. With two fingers in his mouth, he unleashed a shrill whistle, then admitted, "I had anticipated yours and Miko's betrayal long ago. I did not foresee that you would in turn betray Miko instead."

"Can someone explain what in the Night's fucking name is going on here? Are we following the Specter or are we killing him, Darnin?" Handon interrupted finally, stomping through the sand with his cleaver drawn. "Cause I'm fine either way, but you need to _talk_ to me."

"We will be following," Darnin replied slowly. "Forgive me, for I hadn't decided either way until we just arrived here. Miko never moved past the mindset of the Twilight's Hammer, simply fixed to the past. It is clear now, for better or worse, that our future lies in this man."

From the side, leaning against his staff now, Jern hummed loudly. To Sin, he asked, "Will you trust someone who keeps such fickle loyalty?"

The Battleguards, in response to the whistle, finally began drifting out of the hive, from the secret passage that they'd constructed over the last few days. The army of them hovered behind Sin now, to the view of all the desert-weary bandits, and Sin held himself confidently before them. Sekara stopped beside him, offering his bag back.

Sin accepted it, nodding. "That just keeps things exciting. Come on now, we move south-east."

Jern straightened, and he scratched his beard, left uncovered by the beige bandana tied over his hair. "So the plan wasn't to take the mountain paths north of Staghelm?"

Sin barked a laugh as he rummaged through his bag. "With how obvious we've been broadcasting it? No, the elves have fortified it as heavily as a goblin bank. That was to be my last laugh if Miko won out here. The path is clear at the rim of the world, just north of Southwind Village. We must hurry though, before the storm is finished." His hand found it finally, and he withdrew a long, black staff from the bag.

Burning, oily corruption writhed under his fingertips as they held the black lacquered wood. This staff was powerful, more so than his wizarding one that Miko had snapped. He let the butt tap the sand, and a thrum of dark magic reverberated through the ground, noticeable only by those attuned to such matters. He exhaled grey smoke, lost by the others in the swirling sands, as his body adjusted finally to the magic of his mother's war staff.

Confident smirk in place, Sin de Rath the Mad led the bandits onward.

XxX

(Font informal, scrawled in haste)

_Sentinel Narelle Blackmoon,_

_Orders: Do what you feel is best, in your own judgment._

_-Commander Linsai Scarleaf_

Narelle tore up the missive angrily.

XxX

Victory was in sight as Sin began to climb the final sand dune. The land was in total chaos, between the sandstorm, the scattered watchers, the final collision of the hammer and anvil, and now also the lack of presence of them at the northern checkpoint. They had marched mostly along the road, moving quick as they could and trusting in both Sin's judgment and the scouting Battleguards to remain hidden. They reached their destination in roughly two hours, passing within a mile close of the Gladiator horde during interception, and arrived at the same time they met the elves.

On the climb though, with the winds strong but no longer kicking sands and the sky clear in the distance, Sin's eyes noticed something in wait at the top of the bluff. Just behind that sand dune was the rocky freedom of a hard climb down into Un'Goro, with the traversable path unknown to most.

"The elves are waiting atop there," Jern growled in his gruff voice, and he sounded ready to bite stone or draw arms. Sin couldn't tell which.

"Just one," he replied, shooting Darnin a look as he drew two hooked, makeshift daggers. "And she cannot stop us. Let me speak with her first."

Though the Battleguards were quick to try and follow, Sin commanded them back, rising the rest himself. He saw what he expected: not a sentinel, as was her position, but a warden, with her cloak switched from forest green to desert tan, still imbued with a camouflage spell much like his own cloak. She held a bow at full draw, trained at his heart even at three paces away, and he could see the green liquid dripping from its end.

When they were face to face finally, he could see her arm shaking with strain – the bow had been held in that position for minutes now, as she fought within her own mind for a decision. She accused, in a voice accented with the sweet lullaby of the elven tongue, "You knew... that I had been assigned to Watch you. You used me to displace those that would stop you from leaving." Her arm continued shaking, until her voice firmed and she announced, "You may not leave the desert with the qiraji or cultists."

Sin smiled at her, standing neutrally and with as little threat as he could manage. His black staff was vertical, grounded like the goblin rods did to lightning. "Sentinel Narelle Blackmoon. We meet at last, since I first noticed you following us to Hive'Zora... Indeed, I did use you. Otherwise, we would need to escape through force, and I could not ensure that no lives would be lost needlessly. However, you know now that you cannot stop us from leaving."

"Perhaps I cannot, but I can still kill you and more than a score of them, which is enough to leave you scattered and leaderless until Commander Linsai's hyppogryph riders track the rest down." Sin's lips twitched into a wider smile. "But tell me, are you sincere about the old god in the north? Has such an abomination truly risen, without warning or safe-guards?"

"Yes. And after consultation with the qiraji about the internal positioning, we have theorized it has stationed in Northrend, perhaps even at the tomb of its brother."

"And do you seek to join it? Or would you fight it?"

"If I can find somewhere safe for the Battleguards and fulfill my promise, then I would fight it. I'm sure you have heard about the state of my mind at the present, but I believe that with only a few more weeks recovery, I should manage solid shields again."

Narelle eased the tension from her bow, lowering its aim. She said sternly, "I have long since learned to detect truth from lies in direct confrontation. You, Sin de Rath, have fallen, but not from the side of good. If you must persist, if you must ferry these creatures of the old god out of their prison back into the world, then I will continue my duty as Watcher and accompany you. To lend advice, if you seek my counsel... and if I must, to end your threat if you fall."

Sin nodded, agreeable. "I accept you gladly. However, you are not to know where the qiraji finally settle, if I find such a place. It takes only the information in the wrong hands, no matter the argument, before your brothers and sisters come tearing down the walls and slaying them down to the last."

The hawk-eyed warden gave no reaction to the condition. "We will discuss the subject if it becomes relevant."

After a quick, pensive consideration, Sin nodded again, and he turned to wave forward the two hundred men waiting on the sand dune. He noticed the view though, of the endless sands of Silithus stretched before him, masked by the remaining clouds of dust from the storm. Only Narelle would see their escape, at least for the next hour. Viewing the desert from its very edge though also had a significant symbolic meaning; they were on the cusp of escape, after all the micro-scheming and managing.

Sin knew Narelle's attention was on his back as he continued staring at the desert, but he couldn't be shaken, mind falling into stupid trances once again. He began to wonder again how he might have fared without the bandits. They would be down many supplies, including tents and food, though they hadn't done much sleeping on the sand yet, and Un'Goro was warm enough without. They still lacked medicine. Without the bandits, the Outriders would have been fixed on their ass like Narelle had been, likely making this final confrontation a match of blood. Even with the war and storm, blinding the Watch would have been a difficult task, same with making time to ambush the Gladiators with silithid and razing snake holes.

Their speed would have been up though, dealing with only qiraji fliers and Sin on his felsteed.

Jern and Darnin reached the top first, staring at the warden suspiciously. When Handon followed, dragging his bleached bones up the dune, he declared, "Hell's Bells, why is one of their kind here?" If it hadn't been known he was from Lordaeron before then, that curse was specific enough.

"Men, this is Sentinel Narelle. You have no need to worry; she is here only as a precaution for me, in the unfortunate case that I lose a contest of wills against something nasty," Sin told them, noticing that her silver eyes within the mask never left his visage. "Our escape proceeds accordingly."

The future had become something very rough and bleak, Sin recognized. In the last two weeks, he had lost the thing most precious to himself: his control. And in its place, he'd gained the malevolent army of C'Thun, the Twilight Hammer cultists-turned-bandit, and a skilled warden who's only mission was to kill him if he slipped. All the while, an old god had arrived on the planet, sure to plunge the order of everything into complete chaos.

As they watched the bandits and Battleguards begin descending the trail to Un'Goro's surface, Sin's fingers tightened their hold over his mother's black staff. That he was even using the heirloom told of the danger of the present. Worse, he knew the questions to be bubbling on the minds of the quick witted Darnin and Jern, adding together the sudden push of the Gladiators, the Specter's turn in favor of the qiraji, and now the need for a precaution in case he lost his will.

They knew something was happening out in the world, not dissimilar to when they had worked to free C'Thun. Their questions would come soon enough, unless Sin managed to split from them at the jungle floor.

Their cloaks danced in the dusty wind, with his and Narelle's trying to distort the light and camouflage them. Such was the team that would stand against the tides of fate.


	7. Chapter 5: Hell's Bells

Chapter 5

_Hell's Bells_

* * *

X Beacon X

After spending twenty minutes with the men, hammering in the wood fence around their camp at dusk, Malthon made his way to his tent. Someone had already erected it for him; he felt confident he knew who. One of the men had offered to squire for him – a paladin, a squire! Despite him laughing away the notion, he suspected the man might have raised his tent anyways.

Regardless of the man's choice, Malthon was grateful, still wiping the sweat from his brow after the manual labor. He pulled away the flap from the tent and stepped inside. The man had even lit his candles for him! They were placed perfectly beside his map, with the markers already in place, and... he was sitting in his chair?

Malthon stopped there, recognizing first the wavy brown hair, then the blocky shoulders with inscripted holy wards. Crimson armor, silver trim, and aged parchment wards – stylized after the powerful Judgment armor. The paladin was also female, and she did not raise her head from the map at his entrance. "You truly do need the touch of a woman in your life, Malthon. I still don't know how the ties of your armor get done without one."

"Balinda. What a... pleasant surprise." He nearly cringed at the stumble of words, advancing further into the room. Setting down his mace and hammer, he said, "Don't tell me it was you who raised my tent for me?"

She still did not look at him. "Regulation. All tents up before nightfall, with a torch mounted outside. Apparently you missed the order, for your space was flat ground in the final minutes of twilight."

"I had half a mind to sleep under the stars," he replied quickly. It wasn't _quite_ a lie. He had liked the idea, even if he wasn't to implement it.

Balinda steepled her fingers before her, elbows on the table, and finally fixed him under her stare. "You do not need to be so defensive, Malthon. This is not the churchyard, and we aren't children anymore."

"Says the woman who's only purpose in life to to matronize me," he mumbled under his breath.

The woman was hard and sharp as a war axe, and straight and narrow as the sword she carried at her hip. Once the drive was found, her focus was unrelenting and unshakable, to the extent of unsettling even him. Her brown hair reached just past her shoulders, always brushed and immaculate when her helmet was off, and since the fall of Lordaeron, a lock of silver could be found mixed with her bangs. Broad forehead, but button nose and round cheeks that never quite finished disappearing as she aged from girl into woman.

Despite the grey in her hair, Balinda was as youthful as he was – nearly exactly so, off by one week and two days. Their estates had been in close proximity, sent to churchyard together to be trained as paladins, and... their parents had once arranged a marriage between them, to closer bring the Eyenhart and Crowngarde families together. That had all changed when the Scourge attacked.

Balinda had sworn herself to celibacy until their kingdom was returned, and Malthon had found himself quickly filling the void of Lordaeron nobility left in the wake. He came into his inheritance in the worst of ways, without any guidance, but with time and necessity, he managed. Though they remained friends after, differences had opened between them, until now he felt they could only be called comrades. It was difficult to recall the days when they'd both be sent into brilliant crimson blushes and goofy smiles at the reminders of their eventual marriage.

"Between you running off to play working man and Jayce avoiding me, I still do not know what the plan is for our march." She looked to the map again, glancing up the path they had set upon to Icecrown Glacier.

"Jayce is avoiding everyone. He doesn't do much more than brood within his tent at night and march by day," Malthon replied. He had already removed his armor to assist in the labor around the camp, finding it neatly arranged on a mat by his bedroll. Exactly how Balinda arranged her armor before bed. Presently, he pulled up his small chest and sat across from her at the fold table.

_Jayce was right though. Should have left Balinda at New Hearthglen to oversee its reconstruction,_ he sighed within his mind. That way, at least, she'd be out of their hair. "You know that you are welcome to join us at the head of the march. I will always heed your wisdom in counsel." _Not that I'll have much of a choice._

"You know that I have no desire to command and lead. I only wish to know the plan, to be better prepared. We march to the Onslaught Harbor, but there is a whole lot of Icecrown before then, including the vrykul city Ymirheim – the realm of champions. Do we hide at the skirts of the glacier by finding the tournament ruins first?"

It was a kickback to the distant past, pouring over the maps with her. Malthon placed a commanding Scourge insignia over the city at Icecrown's heart, then took a handful of small Scourge footmen markers and formed a large ring around the city, demonstrating the scope of the vrykul scouting parties. The ring was unusually wide, which only made sense.

The small wood squares for cities were placed at the old Argent Tournament grounds, then several others where Malthon had heard towns and camps had been raised. Two were within the vrykul ring, the one at the foot of Ymirheim's mountain and the other pressed against the gates of Corp'rethar. Catching on, Balinda took markers of her own, giving the commanding Scourge insignia to Jotunheim and the Citadel, then giving them their respective rings. Two more camps were suspended inside, though with the ally marked Shadow Vault and its own broad ring, the Quarry's occupation was again regarded as safe. Or at least contested.

"The death knights claimed the Fleshworks from the cult down here," she mentioned, grabbing ally markers. Malthon stopped her, adding, "And they razed it to the ground, not occupying it. Place them here, at the Vanguard. That is said to be our northernmost stronghold, and it is there we will stop first once we escape this forest of fae."

The final marker was the objective, a painted green circle piece, placed off the coast at the Onslaught Harbor. Malthon watched Balinda study the map now, knowing she would draw much of his own conclusions from it. Finally, she admitted, "I see. Had we been two hundred footmen, I'd call your plan ludicrous, but you have gathered only full-fledged paladins. Will we attempt to reach those inside enemy territory or do we consider them already lost? Have you word of regular Scourge movements or cultist activity?"

"Only the same we've all heard, that the war isn't over yet. I won't have details on where until we reach the Vanguard." Her sharp, green eyes narrowed with thought, but he picked up the small sack of Scourge footmen insignias and slowly began to dump them out over the entire territory, mixing with the regular rings until the only exceptions were strongholds and cities. "This is our assumption. We will try to reach each and every one of them."

Balinda leaned back and nodded. She knew their work well. The next point, Malthon hesitated to bring up, but he knew that of everyone gathered, she had the highest chance of knowing. "That isn't all. You recall that in training, the strength of the Light came easiest to me, while the arms favored you. Since the very start of this journey, the Light had warned me of something – something beyond the dark atrocities of the Scourge. I'm... unfamiliar with which its warning me, and that worries me more than the entire armies of the damned."

His fellow paladin gave no immediate reaction, regarding only the map, for a long moment. Then her eyes met his, and something softened in her expression, in the same way she did only when allowing herself vulnerable near him. She hadn't done that since their teenage years. "This feeling, it is not the usual righteous fury of the Light regarding the unnaturalness of undeath. The Light feels... nervous. Afraid, even. Something has unsettled even the Light – that is what you speak of, yes?"

"Indeed," he rumbled grimly. Thank the Light that he wasn't alone in feeling this. "And the feeling has only grown stronger the farther north we travel. Have you any idea what it is?" She said nothing, looking back to the map. "Balinda?"

There was the shifting of metal as her fist tightened, but she shook her head. "I do not. With your permission, I'd like to take a small team of ten paladins of my choice to find the source of this abomination."

Malthon did not even need to consult the Light to know his answer. "I have no doubt that you of all brothers and sisters would succeed in this task. However, Balinda, we need to keep all of our strength concentrated. I fear that I myself will be in need of a Crowngarde before long."

"You are no High General, no matter what those boys decide to call you behind your back, Malthon," Balinda chastised, reverting to her usual self. She stood up to the sound of her armor clunking. Always a strong woman, that one. After adjusting her sword and shield, she locked eyes with Malthon and stared, and with one hand on her hilt, she added, "But you'll always have my sword ready for your defense. I'll make sure these upstarts stay in line with the march, including our Scarlet zealots."

With a short huff, she turned and left the tent. Malthon watched until the flap fell closed behind her. Not for the first time, he wondered what his life might be like if they had kept on with the marriage. Eventually, he returned his attention to the map, revising his course in his mind and reminding himself of how many more days they had in this weird forest.

After a dinner of stale, unleavened bread and a goblet of wine, Malthon packed away the markers and map, then folded up the table and chair, placing it all inside his enchanted chest for the early march. Wizards had made it to hold far more than its size suggested, and it was light enough to be saddled on a horse without burden. All of his belongings, including bedroll and tent, could fit inside, if appropriately packed.

Lying down for sleep, Malthon reviewed his conversation with Balinda. It was plain enough that she still made him nervous, with her sharp wit and bold tongue. He thought of her call for a woman's touch in his life, yet the fulfillment of the role herself. The past was in the past though, and so his thoughts turned to her in the present, as a Crowngarde, and why he asked for her protection.

Before the first paladin had been trained, the Crowngarde line had been a long series of knights devoted to defending the king. It had earned them their noble family name, and they were among the first to enter the paladin order, to better serve in their duties. Malthon's own father had been a knight too, his mother a lady, but despite their families' closeness, they did not hold the same prestige as the Crowngarde's. Regardless, they, like all sons of knights, were offered entrance into the paladin order if they possessed the ability to speak to and channel the Holy Light.

Two hundred paladins, in one army. The possibility was awe inspiring, the potential earthshaking.

Pushing away the hounding thoughts of the day, the future, and other possibilities, Malthon resigned himself to sleep.

XxX

Malthon woke to soft touches. Someone caressed his chest, his hair, and he jolted awake at it, finding them unfamiliar. With wide eyes, he searched his dark tent, until he found a silhouette hovering at just a few feet from him. It was feminine, excessively so after so long exposed to women in the bulk of paladin armor. But rather than an underdressed paladin here, silver eyes shined from her head, with two long ears stretching back.

Malthon blinked and rubbed his eyes. Upon second glance, he saw a wispy nightgown over her, pale like moonlight. The realization had him groan.

"_Malthon Eyenhart..." _she purred, leaning closer. Her voice remained sultry and inviting, and a soft breath buffed against his neck as she closed in. She followed with whispers, each note of her voice melodic as a song, but all of it remained unintelligible in the elven tongue.

When she tried pressing her lips against his neck, Malthon grabbed her slender shoulders and gently forced her back. "Nope." The night elf's head cocked curiously, the outline of her lips pursing just so, and she murmured more soft words before leaning in again, this time aiming for his lips.

Malthon recognized the subtle work of magic, touching upon his mind. A glamor, he thought, as her visage began to change within his mind into something far more enchanting and beautiful, trying to coerce his acceptance of her. Malthon let their lips touch, recognizing how the spell solidified and strengthened tenfold, then he scooped up her lithe frame in his arms.

The elf broke the kiss to a small sound of surprise, while he began to carry her. But it was not to his bed that he moved. Malthon restrained himself from grumbling beneath his breath as he shouldered aside the flap of his tent's entrance and dropped the attempted temptress outside. "Nope," he repeated, then stepped back inside and let the flap close behind him.

Without another thought on it, Malthon returned to bed and slept.

XxX

The weird sounds of the forest were overrun by the thundering hooves of two hundred horses. It was the fourth day now, just barely reaching the half way point of the forest. They were making better time than assumed, though that would shorten their journey only by a day or two, if nothing unfortunate happened until then.

Malthon had a dwarf, Arvin Ironhawk, scouting ahead of them and guiding the party. The stout man was the son of a scout and marksman, but while training to be the same, found his true calling in the Light and Uther's order, now an Argent Crusader. While they were following the river, the soil was too soft for the horses, too prone to accident, so Arvin found the safe path for them. They trusted he would keep the river in mind for direction, even if it wasn't always in sight.

A few yards behind Arvin was Malthon, with Jayce following at the right hip. The main body moved as a two-man thick snake, spaced only enough to have the horses not interfere with each other.

Having traveled to Silvermoon and the land of the elves more than once in his life, Malthon knew fae. He always loved the forest that resided beside his estates, something simple and useful, and he remembered so starkly the different feeling when inside a forest of the elves – like eyes were always upon him, every shadow a trick of the mind or the eye, and the sounds both of mysterious beast or ranger call. He hated the paranoia and suspicion when inside it, with no appreciation for the wonders of arcane.

Only one human ever came to understand elven forests, and that was Nathanos Marris.

Despite his experience, Malthon found this forest of fae entirely different. Beautiful golds and strong trees filled the landscape, and more than once they've ran past the ruins of a kaldorei civilization. It was peaceful, and during the day it was even silent, but it seemed to him like the silence and peace of a graveyard. He felt like behind every tree and shadow was a mass grave, their hooves trampling over tombs unmarked, and the longer they remained here, the more disgruntled the dead became at the sacrilege.

History said that once, the Lich King tried expanding eastward from Icecrown. His armies had began to move through this forest... and none of it ever came back. Twice he tried, losing legions against something unseen and unknown, until even the Lich King was unnerved and suspicious of this seemingly normal forest. They say that was the reason he erected such a massive wall to separate the glacier from the forest, called Ironwall Dam.

"Whoa there!" Arvin cried, jolting Malthon from his reflections. His arm came up, signaling the rest of them to slow to a stop.

Unlike the the star-eyed boys and girls from the Scarlet Onslaught, Arvin recognized they were all brothers together, thus was unafraid to treat Malthon as an equal.

Malthon walked his horse the last of the way to Arvin, stopping beside the man and looking out into the forest with the scout. The Light within him remained queasy, but it warned of no immediate danger. Malthon was training himself to ignore the foreboding of the Light that had started with the journey. Presently, he saw nothing of immediate interest in the shadows of the forest before them.

"What do your eyes see?" he asked, voice low. Jayce followed behind them, watching with his hawk gaze.

Arvin grunted, angry. "Nay, my friend, its what they _don't_ see. I noticed it first a few hundred strides back, but I'm only sure of it now, as sure as you can get in this wretched place."

With a deep frown under his aquiline nose, Jayce said, "Speak up, dwarf. What is it?"

Arvin's eyes never left the trees, and before replying his wiped a hand over his beard, ending in an angry slash. "I know forests, mountain paths, caves... I've seen and marked them all. But in this place, just look at them branches and leaves up yonder. Plain and normal as they come. In a normal forest, if you walk forward, keep yer eyes on them, and then turn around and look back at them, it's all the same branch, aye? Same position?"

Malthon and Jayce shared a look, then glanced back at the branches behind them. Arvin continued, "Aye, it's sure enough the same here. Branch now, and when we get past, it's still a branch there. But there's something _different_ with them. Something _wrong._ Leaves don't let you see what's on the other side of the branch, but you can guess, you know what to expect. And damn near every time, it's not what I expect – it's right near all wrong from what I expect!"

"You sure you aren't coming down with elven madness?" Jayce asked thoughtfully.

Malthon was inclined to agree. "I've said it before, Arvin. You can't let the fine details get to you here – it's _not_ a normal forest, and if you don't come to immediate terms with that, if you don't simply accept that rocks fall up here, you'll go mad."

Arvin growled, eyes still unmoving, but he finally nodded. "You say we shouldn't care unless its a threat to us, aye friend? Then let me speak to you as a brother of Light, not a scout. When I guide and scout, the Light has always shined the way for me. From caves of black, to foreign deeps and forgotten forests, the Light has always carried me to my destination. It knows where I want to go and will take me safely there."

"Such is the ways of the Light, unique within each man," Malthon agreed.

"When I marched up the mountains from Wrathgate onto that blasted glacier, the Light seemed glad to carry me to Scourgelands, filling me with purpose. I asked it now to guide me down the river, again to Icecrown. Do you know how its telling me to lead, Lord Eyenhart?" Malthon said nothing, while Arvin's frown deepened. His gloved hand raised and pointed. "It's telling me to lead us there. To reach the stranded men on Icecrown, it wants us to go that way."

Malthon and Jayce both followed the hand, pointing east towards the body of their brothers. It was telling them to go back.

Jayce nodded slowly. "The Light's warning should not go unheeded. Our journey is not without dangers, but even the Light accepts that and will lead us forward as we are needed, despite the risks to one's own life. However, dwarf, I too consult the Light daily, and it has told me only one thing: to follow the man beside you, into the maws of madness if necessary. Where does the Light take you, Malthon?"

_To do what must be done._ Malthon released a slow sigh. "I tell you honestly, as brothers: within me, the Light does not direct me to my course. It swells within me, blazes like the sun in the sky – brighter even – and fills me with strength and purpose. And with all that power and Light inside me, it tells me... nothing. I pray for guidance, and it gives me more Light inside, to illuminate farther not in one direction but all."

Jayce and Arvin stared at Malthon, blinking in surprise. The Scarlet Commander breathed, "Uther..."

"What does that mean then, Malthon?" Arvin asked, his frown disappearing into his beard again. "Do we continue on?"

Jayce shook his head, and for the first time since their reunion, Malthon caught him laughing. It came softly, almost beneath his breath, but Jayce showed honest joy. "It means, dwarf, that this man _is_ the Light's direction. He is mortal, but he is of Light. His purpose coincides with the Light's such that his decisions can be trusted as the Light's own."

Long ago, when they were young and still discussing their new sensations of the Light, Balinda had once thought the same thing of Malthon.

"It means, friends, to keep yourself armed and the Light within your reach always. There are dangers all in the way of our path, but we must push through regardless, Light willing," Malthon told them, still denying within himself the theory. "We will keep on."

After taking in a deep breath, Arvin nodded, commanding his horse forward. Malthon waved their troops on again. He briefly wondered at the implications of what the dwarf said – that the Light wasn't guiding their path, but his own scouting skills were – before banishing the thought. The Light might not guide Malthon with arrows, but it had given him purpose, and he knew, reluctantly, that he could not afford for long to forget the feeling of dread that hung over the whole journey. _That_ was the Light's true message to him, and the reason for investing him with such strength and armor.

XxX

As one of the most heavily armored soldiers in any army, the process of equipping and removing armor was slow and drawn out. If caught off-guard in an attack, it was commonly agreed that either the footmen delayed the threat while the paladins suited up, or they charged in with just their weapons and shield.

Malthon pulled at the laces of his boots, keeping them snug, and carefully tied the double knots that wouldn't slip in a fierce battle. His linen underarmor was tucked into his buckled pants, leaving him able to slip his silver breastplate over his head and begin doing the buckles that would hold it to him.

He was in a trance. The Light had woken Malthon in the mid of night and taken him from his bed. He didn't even look at his hands as his fingers worked and did the buckles and ties with no mistakes in the dark, trusting it would work as intended. He knew, knew from the very start, that gathering such a large force of so many brothers and sisters who could strongly touch the Light would lead to bizarre and unusual events among them. Paladins were often the beacon for large groups of common folk and soldiers – to make an army of beacons, such an event was unprecedented. And anomalies were sure to follow.

How long had it been since the Light actually made him act – at least, physically influenced? Since it controlled his actions? Not since he was a boy in the churchyard with fifty others, where the Light had taken him from his room to his mentor and they returned to see an assassin snooping about for the sons of knights.

All these discussions about the Light with his men, about its guidance and the meaning of visions and feelings, and here was Malthon under its direct control. What other occurrences would arise with this force?

The blue cloak fastened to his heavy spaulders, and Malthon found himself lifted towards his weapons and shield. The aegis weighed nearly fifty pounds of solid iron, but when the Light was with him, his body felt it as five or less. He remembered when the Light shone strong in battle and the Lordaeron insignia that it bore was overlay-ed with the dagger of Light, shaped like a cross. When that was the case, no matter the force that hit the shield, it was reflected with no effort.

The last was his mace, scooped up by his right hand, and as he straightened to his feet again, the Light relinquished its control back to Malthon, and he took in a slow breath, feeling the burden of armor upon his body. Just then, the tent flap was ripped aside, and there was the heavy clanking of a paladin rushing in several steps.

"Malthon!" Balinda cried, the hard tone laced with worry. She stopped, seeing him fully armed, and he caught her nodding at him. Softer, she explained, "Something has attacked the nightwatch. Two were down already when I heard. Come quickly." She was in her full regalia of armor as well, whether due to the Light's warning or that she rarely took it off was up for speculation.

When Malthon heard, he gave only a curt nod, and they both sprinted out of the tent, blue cloaks and metallic chiming mingling with the rush of wind. Immediately, Malthon caught the commotion breaking out among the camp, with the bright glow of fire near the northern end. Other paladins were stepping out of the tents, trying to catch word of what was happening, most in sleep wear and others half-armored.

Balinda hesitated none, taking off towards the north with Malthon at her side. Seals and prayers erupted around them as they held council with the Light, and the sudden brightness of them and in full armor caught the attention of the rest. That told them enough to start their own armoring. They were half-way there when a third armored and shining figure joined them: Jayce, his helmet already covering his hard face.

At the last line of tents before their picket wall, a terrible screech split the night. More than churn fear in his gut, the very sound sent the Light inside squirming and dimming. All three of them gasped at the sensation, before Jayce roared in rage, sprinting harder. Like Malthon, he carried a mace and shield, and both glowed bright with white Light.

Malthon saw then the ring of paladins encircling a massive, dark silhouette. Large bonfires had been tossed nearby for them to better see at night, but it gave no real color to the dark, oily skin of it. The paladins were illuminated by their blessings and the firelight, and it was clear the unnatural contrast between the two. Even a blast of Holy Shock did not give the creature color.

The fighting was fierce, in Malthon's brief analysis. This unnatural creature had a number of limbs more than even the insectoid races. A dark sweep of a blade was barely caught on their shields, while another two behind were tossed away with a whip of a tail. At first, Malthon thought there to be two tails – three even! – as similarly fluid limbs lashed about, strangling one man too until his Divine Shield forced them apart. Then he saw that from its back stretched long tentacles.

Just as the three of them were about to join the fray, Malthon saw a dwarf, built like a short orc with all his muscle, stepping up aggressively. The man was so large his armor had been cut at the shoulders to reveal the limbs. Just as his giant battleaxe was lifted for a powerful strike, Light pooling around the weapon with fury, the creature's head whipped towards him and it unleashed another dreadful shriek.

The Light flickered out as it did before, visibly so from the dwarf's axe, and he stumbled in disorientation for just a moment. In that span, a scythe-like arm ripped inside the dwarf's chest, impaling him, and it flung him away with the sound of his armor rending apart. The paladin hit the ground and stopped at once with a sickening impact, and he did not rise.

"Malthon!" Balinda shouted. She was pleading that he took command, trusting his experience.

What experience did he have against _this?_

"Someone Redeem those men!" Malthon roared, louder than the rest of the voices. The Light made his voice clear and strong. "And make _way!"_

The two just before him immediately stepped aside, clearing a path to the beast. It was only a few yards away now, stretching above him at a height of two stories or more.

The Light within him, that did nothing but empower, swelled like the start of a pressurized fountain. It sprang up with a mighty blast, spreading to his limbs and mind, and he knew from past recount that vapors of Light erupted out in an aura around him. Not even that faltering voice of the beast could halt this moment, a fact that became clear as it tried, and once Malthon planted his last step, he threw all his weight, strength, and Light into the opening blow.

Rather than slicing through like a hot knife through butter, as the mace head usually did in such a strike, it was like slashing water with a broad plank. The flesh of the creature, whether it was hide or carapace or scales or skin, refused to cut easy, and the motion was sluggish as the mace swept through, erupting thick, black ichor from the wound all the way through. His mace finished its arc, and the lack of resistance as it came out had him splash more of the black ooze at the snap.

Jayce hit next, crushing a back leg – Malthon didn't know how many of those there were – while Balinda lunged forward like a fencer and buried her sword deep into the broad chest of the creature. Recognizing that her attack didn't kill it, Balinda jumped back, whipping her sword out and splattering more black droplets, this time over Malthon by accident.

It was then that they realized that the blood was acid, sizzling away at everything that they touched. Malthon heard the hissing from even his enchanted breastplate and dropped to his knee, ramming the head of his mace into the soil and bowing his head. Internally, he opened his link to the Light, channeling it within himself and knowing it would hear his pleas.

_LIGHT, shield us!_

The Light's Intervention immediately cocooned around all who were affected, starting within and pushing out all foreign ails, including the black ichor. Malthon opened his eyes and stood, thanking the Light.

With wild shrieks, the creature stumbled about, clutching at the wounds at its belly and chest and clearly limping on that one leg. Under the yellow glow of his shield, Malthon received a better look at the beast, only to realize it wasn't a beast at all. It was humanoid, with the black flesh stretching over a largely muscles figure with two arms and two legs. Only, it was changed.

A moment later, he recognized that the starting shape was vaguely eredar, like his draenei brothers in Light. It was corrupted though, clear with its difference in shape and the growth in size, the tail stronger and touching the yellow grass. But even that demonic corruption wasn't enough. Scales had grown over parts of its frame like natural armor, and tentacles swung about from its back, strong and independent of the rest of its shape. It's body had morphed shape too, to give it four arms and four legs, stomping about like a magnataur.

Strangest of all, to Malthon, was its eyes, visible finally upon its face. Plainly, the eyes were missing. Gouged out in what must have been quite messy way. Why?

With breathing ragged, the... creature finally stopped thrashing and stood to its fully erected height. The eyeless gaze fixed upon Malthon, lips peeling back like a rabid dog's. One clawed hand was raised, and black magic began to gathered with pitch motes pooling in just as all of their shields dissipated and Forbearance settled upon their spirits.

Malthon's lips drew thin with his pensive frown and he shifted his stance to a more defensive one, raising his shield to catch the blast. The lull did not last though, as Jayce and others rushed again to the creature for further exchange. A sweep of a second hand sent them all tumbling back from a midnight wave of magic, while the thing's attention remained fastened on Malthon. Things had become personal, apparently, as the thick ooze still stained its oily stomach.

The seconds passed with agonizing slowness, and Malthon began to wonder if he could stop this attack with his shield at all. The eredar were known for their magical prowess, and this one seemed all the stronger than the usual. He knew better than to try to dodge too, as any wizard worth his salt always fixed their spells on a target, not a path, so it would simply follow him.

The creature sent the attack, lobbing it forward like a child would a play ball. Calling upon a queasy, nervous Light, Malthon was prepared for the hit, comforted by the presence of Balinda pressed against his shoulder. Before it could hit him though, a magically empowered shout split the night:

"_Kal'do falah-dor!"_

A bright spell of whites and light violets shot like a bullet over him and Balinda and crashed into the squirming black sphere. The reaction was violent, sending clouds and arcs of light and shadow cutting through the air with a roar like dynamite. The force of impact sent the both of them stumbling back, and even the monster rocked at it, hissing like a cat.

A waterfall of light-colored vapor poured from the collision point, the only trace of either spell. Malthon's attention fixed back on the eredar's through the motes, and the displeasure was mutual. Malthon made forward again, emboldened with a moment of confidence from the whimsical Light. The slash was deflected by his shield, as was the tentacle whip, and then Malthon smashed his mace into its hips. His attacks sent the creature reeling to the left, and then to the right, and its desperate counters were easily deflected by his Light-guided shield.

At the briefest pause, the monster sucked in a breath for a Light-quenching roar, and Malthon screamed a prayer of power to counter it. The Light swelled up and down like waves in an ocean, visible around him, and they engaged physically yet again. Barely, as if whispering reluctantly, the Light told Malthon when the eredar was sending spells at him, and he made his way forward reckfully.

With several more Light-blessed blows, the creature was finally slowing down, weakening, and the other paladins including Jayce and Balinda assisted in finally laying it low. When the last leg was rendered useless, it fell over onto its side. They tried to swarm it, but suddenly the four tentacles lashed out with tips first and impaled three of them clean through. Balinda caught her offender with her shield, then cut off the appendage before leaping upon the creature's chest.

There was a thrashing moment, but nimble Balinda avoided the desperate strikes and stomped her knee against its collar before sweeping her sword through its neck. It took three attempts, but then the snarling head rolled away in the dirt, leaving a sizzling trail of black blood behind it. Immediately, the headless body began to convulse and shudder, and Balinda fought to remain steady on it.

The Light's warning ripped through Malthon's mind. Without a thought, he leap up with unnatural strength and caught Balinda's heavily armored body in his arms. Heedless of the impact between them, he ripped her from her place on top and carried her down with him to the other side. They hit the ground rolling, and in a stroke of Light-blessed luck, they stopped in just the position where Malthon could throw his shield arm up and slam the heavy plate between the creature's body and them.

He noticed that despite the predicament, Balinda managed the same, slamming hers beside his and fully covering their bodies. "Cover!" they roared, synchronized.

There was a moment where they felt the ground begin to rumble, just before an ear-splitting explosion ripped through the night. Their shields were unhindered by the lash of the shockwave, but from the sound alone of heavy, plated bodies hitting the ground, Malthon knew that not everyone was so lucky.

Worst still, pieces of the freshly exploded corpse began to fall upon them, and wherever the meaty chunks touched, the sizzling blood followed. An acid bomb, upon death. Malthon's mind felt numb from the shock, and he half-wondered if he'd wake from a terrible dream when this was over. Never had he witnessed anything so atrocious and gruesome. The Light remained in a steadier state of confidence with the creature's death, but the mere fact that it had faltered told more than anything else.

When matters had cleared, Malthon and Balinda lifted their shields and stood to their feet. A crater remained where the creature had died, and steady clouds of steam rose from the area around them. Breathing hard, they shared a wide-eyed gaze, then looked to the men around them. Paladins from the camp were swarming forward, many already enveloped with Light as they worked Redemption for the slain. Others worked on cleansing the filth from the area, especially where the blood had touched a paladin.

The tip of Balinda's sword touched the ground, smoking with acid vapor, and she slowly shook her head. "Hell's Bells, Malthon. I don't... I..."

"Keep the Light close, sister," Malthon returned, keeping his emotion from his voice. They needed a steady image now, and at the tone, she looked over again before nodding. They didn't need words as she stepped aside: Crowngarde's were guardians, Eyenhart's were leaders. It was time for him to lead.

"I want the wounded taken to a shared tent. Get them food, water, and plenty of blankets. We triple the watch tonight, men; the rest of you, sleep if you still can." Malthon made his way through them, speaking boldly and letting himself be seen and heard. To those involved in the fighting, he stopped and spoke to personally, then helped carry the wounded into the quickly made hospital tent.

The creature, the Light, none of it would leave his head all the while. He was sure the rest felt the same. Hell's Bells indeed.

* * *

AN: By now, it's become essential that I stop writing in favor of reading. To read is to write well, to keep from falling into mediocracy, and I feel like my writing has become smeared in mediocracy of late. I need to start reading again, to recharge my batteries so to speak. In the meanwhile, I'll keep on updating with what I already have written, which is up to Chapter 10.


	8. Chapter 6: The God Lands

**Note:** Narelle Blackmoon's appearance is based on Blackhawk from whatever warcraft book that was. You can google images "Blackhawk warcraft", it'll be the first black and white result – if you ever wanted a visual representation.

* * *

Chapter 6

_The God Lands_

* * *

X Fallen X

The rains came.

For the first few minutes, it was something amazing. The bandits pointed and cheered, laughing and dancing. The qiraji, with their first experience, seemed to turn like turkeys by how they all faced upwards with their mouths open. Sin felt like it was the veils that kept their mouths from filling with water and drowning – such had nearly been the case with Sekara, who went without.

Quickly, however, the dangers and negative potential became clear. Un'Goro was called a crater for its place 9,000 feet below the deserts it was slumped between. Despite what logic suggested of its terrain, it was a land of paradise and life, full of green behemoths barely called trees, wildlife that scaled to the heavens, and more exotic presences. It was called the God Lands for this phenomena, a name that carried the rumor as the home of the titans when they lived on Azeroth.

To get there, two clear ramps had been carved from the Silithus and Tanaris deserts along what was already the only ways down. Obstacles had been cleared, the trail leveled, and from then on it was known that apart from flying, those were the only ways down. Sin knew another way, at least on logic and suspicion, where they scaled the steep cliff walls using the naturally jagged formations to overcome the sheerness.

However, as they descended, the hard rock gave way to soil and eventually sparse grass. The steepness remained a constant concern, where a single misstep could cost one his life, and indeed one man had already tumbled down screaming, lost forever to them. The event remained on everyone's mind.

With the rains now, soil turned to mud, and the steepness remained unchanging. Quickly, Sin gathered the forces into a broad nook, mostly flat, and had them raise tents to take cover. Waters began to pour in great rivers and falls down the cliff walls, pooling into lakes where the land didn't slope, and it grew clear that they were trapped.

Two hours into the torrents of rain, Sin remained outside his tent. Water slid off his cloak like metal, rather than cloth, and he carried with him still the black war staff. _Shed'lahk_ was it's name, and it was no staff, as he claimed. It was a key. A key to the nightmares he had grown up knowing. His mother had been the keeper, the jailer, the warden... And now the burden was his to bear.

Light help them all should the key's potential be realized, and Shadow take them before it was ever used.

Sin stood sentinel over the nearby ridge that lined the edge before the valley they sought to enter. Already over a day of traveling and they still were not half way down. Beside him, there was a jagged rend in the lip that poured forth a frothing stream of muddy water – their nook would have flooded if he had not given the pool an exit. Such was the first spell he'd ever cast with that staff, a simple explosion meant to cut down at least two feet of rock.

Beside him, the rend stretched fifteen feet to the right, and the hole split the rock a good ten down at the lowest point. Molten rock had begun to spill forward from the heat, until the river cooled it into an exiting mouth. The experience was a lasting reminder of two things: the dangers of the staff and the awing control his mother had had over magic.

Pelted by the rain and drudging thoughts, Sin took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, watching the spew of ash and smoke leave his lungs. His thoughts returned to _Shed'lahk._ The magic of the staff was inside him, wrapping coils around his soul and burrowing astral tendrils inside his very body. He used it as a measure of how far he still had to go in recovering his control: _Shed'lahk_ was an entity, much like Frostmourne. It sought to control him, to make him into a host, and should it ever win the struggle...

His unstable mind spun forth the memories, showing him visions of his mother when he had still been a youth. A beautiful woman, of similarly dark skin, but she spoke now with a measured frown, _"No, my son, not like the Guardian. In my charge, we inherit no power; we are born with no right. We must defend with the strength of a mortal man. And that is why, my son, we learn and use the most begotten and forbidden power that we are capable of controlling. We must exceed our limitations as far as we can, if we are to perform our duties."_

The memory was prepared to play out further, but a voice interrupted it. "You will not make your escape." It was a cool, smooth voice, that of the eternally patient night elves. Narelle was with him.

Inside him, _Shed'lahk_ twitched, and with burning agony, it showed Sin visions of its power. To turn her into ash, to carve a path down this mountain by itself, to vanquish even the clouds above and dry all the water below. Sin snorted and scoffed within his own mind. _You do not have that power. _It_ does._

Though she did not gloat, there was sureness in her words. Sin glanced over to see her crouched to his left, her warden cloak fanned about her as she ran a smooth stone over one of her blades. Beneath her hood, he could see her silver eyes overlooking the crater, and then she took looked to him.

In reply, he said, "It is far too late to turn back, for the same reason. But I have already touched the clouds, and they will pass from us soon. It will be a simple matter to dry the mud as we move along."

"Until the next coming of rains, and perhaps then we won't be on such flat ground," she said dismissively. She flicked the stone over the ridge and sheathed her blade, just one of many, before adding, "Your qiraji refuse to fly over the canyon walls. They know that the land before them is the God Lands. What makes you think that they will enter now, when not even all the will of C'Thun could get them to?"

Sin smiled. "Because I believe it was the will of C'Thun that could not enter, not the qiraji. Remember how eager the gladiators were to enter on their way to this other, who does not yet know defeat at titan hands." She remained silent.

Neither moved from their place of watching, even when Darnin and Ressact came to speak to Sin and left. The sun was in the latter hours before sundown when the torrents finally eased up. The clouds began to disperse shortly after.

Narelle stood once Sin turned from his place and began to make his way back to the camp. Before him, a few dozen sun-bleached tents were erected, bandits in some and Battleguards crammed into others. Pools of water showed like glass, reflecting pale sky and storm-grey clouds, and they connected the tents together on its crystal plane.

There was a distinct absence of sound behind Sin where the Watcher moved.

With _Shed'lahk_, Sin weaved a complex spell that would begin drying the area around him immediately. It was strange, almost nostalgic, to be working with arcane magicks once again, where spells wove together like art and the language of tongues rolled and waned rather than snarled and clicked. However, Sin's tongue lashed out when he noticed _Shed'lahk_ had sent the nearby pools into frothing, boiling pits, forcing it back into the usual spell, where water peeled away in cool, wispy fog.

It was almost like a magister's duel, using the staff. To fight a separate will, that might either hinder or accelerate your command. There was so much power contained within it...

After rousing his followers, the camp erupted into commotion as they broke down the tents and regathered supplies in carrying form. Sin noticed many had laid out plank-wood buckets to gather as much rain as they could, and he joined the camp in refilling their skins. It was difficult enough finding clean, pure water, even in Un'Goro. The spells for the purifying process were too weak for any more than one person.

At the neck of their nook, Sin ran his hand over his cheeks and chin, feeling the small build up of hairs fall away from the sparks of magic. He blinked after the absent-minded action, then reprimanded himself severely. Only a fool shaved with magic, dangerous as it was, and a mad one, if his control wasn't surgeon-precise. The motion had just seemed natural, coming on instinct.

Narelle was watching his every action, every decision. The slip reminded him of it.

"Come along," he announced to those behind him, then raised his staff and slammed the butt down into the hard dirt, muttering a spell.

The water that still spilled down the mountain made their intended path a dangerous stream. With the spell, mud and dirt rose from under the water and formed a new ridge up the side. Sin crafted it to slope west, into the nook they were leaving, and guided the stream in an earthen gutter all the way to the pools far behind them.

With a wave of his hand, fire licking his fingertips, the muddy line that the stream had formerly ran down immediately dried out, the mud turning from dark brown to the light tan of Un'Goro soil, then cracking as he took out too much moisture. He continued out, following the path down as the slope steepened.

Magic was such a versatile matter, fluid and volatile as the Nether yet dependable in skilled hands as steel was in a warrior's. It could be utilized in so many ways as well. Like the warlock, who called upon fel magicks, the arcane of demons, and fought the battle of wills with every cast to remain above its perverse touch. There was runic arcane, where the true power was in the shapes and symbols the magic was woven into. There was the arcane of mages, a matter of intent and incantations for precise results.

But there was also the raw magic, from those with enough power. The magic responded to the wielder's will, usually in simple and explosive manners. It was quite easy to use, near instant too, yet also the quickest to go wrong, or behave unintentionally. It was a favored method of Dalaran mages to find powerful students among the populace by finding those who had an accidental outburst.

With the loss of his control, the slipping of his mind, Sin was not surprised to see this magic of instinct coming even easier to him now. He was casting spells without thought, on primal instincts – nothing dangerous yet, but how long until his testosterone accidentally took a woman from her clothes, or someone too loud at night found themselves without lips or a mouth?

He enjoyed these thoughts and reflections as he led the bandits and qiraji in silence.

XxX

"Ah, now killing from the shadows, that's my trade, girlie." It was a dwarf that was boasting, starring at the night elf warden with the hungry blue-shined eyes of a cultist. A wicked kris was in his hands, being turned side over side. "Thought about starting as a rogue in big-ole Ironforge, but those crooks don't seem to like crookery."

Narelle had all the appearance of being disinterested. Her Watch was on Sin de Rath, seated beside the unveiled qiraji in pink at a far fire. As she watched him, her eye fell back upon the staff that rested upon his lap. Dark feelings blossomed inside her heart at the sight of it. That artifact was far darker cursed than anything these Twilight dogs had gotten their hands on. Had she had her own way, it would be taken up to Darnassus, to be sealed into the deepest vault they had.

The drunken dwarf was quickly trying her patience, however. "A load of cock buttock, if yer askin' me, but I moved out and moved on, taking a bit of this and that, cut a little of this and that. The shadows and I, we be real good friends now, aye. Makes a man wonder what a skinny little elf like yerself can... oh, ho ho!"

Without ever looking his way, the warden faded into the shadows, untouched even by the nearby fire. The night made any trace of her impossible to find. The dwarf laughed, peering left to right, and he twisted his blade to a reverse hold over the hilt, pointed downward. Though his stance was loose, his fist was tight.

"So yer a hunter of the night, girlie, but you ain't no monster. You ain't no killer like me or us, just don't have the stones for it. Like a hawk against a panther."

In the Blink of an eye, Narelle showed the dwarf a true taste of the shadow. No sound, no warning, no sight until her moon crescent was already against his throat, the elbows of her arms pushed against his to keep them from moving in and cutting her. One foot remained tangled with his too, not with weight but positioned just so to optimize leverage if she had need of throwing him off balance.

"Give me reason," she whispered with deathly calm, "and you will be dead before the first hiss of my blade. Feel fortunate that my Watch is that warlock, not a staggering drunk."

"An' to think I was once afraid of yah," the dwarf chuckled, careless. Narelle's silver gaze narrowed, until she felt the slip of her narrow leather top. Her blade did not waver as her chest fell free of the cut bodice, but unease set in the base of her spine. "You see, yer problem is that you lived just too comfortably, yah damn elf. In the desert, we faced the North Wind, we faced each other, killin' and slashing just for a cup of water. We had the weakness bled out of us, slowness, softness... Yer slow, lassy – slow and easy. And the shadows are _mine._"

Narelle looked down, to see his his kris tapping the center of her chest, between breasts nearly exposed from the severed leather. The strap that held it together had been cut. She saw his hand, pressed outward to keep his blade away, awkwardly maintaining the reverse grip so the blade reached her. He hadn't moved since she ambushed him, meaning he had caught her in the very instant of her Blink.

With a careful step back, the dwarf untangled from her leg and withdrew himself and the blade. He grinned at her, tapping the kris against his wrist, then gave a brief leer for her chest. He whistled a merry tune as he turned and headed back towards the fire.

Narelle returned to the shadows, melding back in, brooding. She left her severed top undone, uncaring in favor of the thoughts the dwarf left behind in her. Certainly, she had not been subtle with her attack, and he had known it was coming, _But is that the the forging of the desert within him? Is that what Sin de Rath wanted from desert-hardened warriors?_

As a warden and a sentinel, Narelle did not live comfortably. She lived among the desert, Watching, yet water was always near at hand with a quick spell to pull it from wells deep below the desert. In the storms, shelter could be erected in minutes, and her cloak kept out the worst of anything, be it heat or cold. She did not struggle for meals, water, safety... How much strength did the desert grant to those who stayed alive?

If she was to kill Sin de Rath, who led these people, she would need every advantage. Rather than wait to slay the dwarf, she felt he had earned his disgusting leer; a lesson had been learned this day.

At the distant fire, Sin watched the cheeky dwarf sit with comrades at another campfire, bursting into song as he placed skewered worm meat into the flames. His lip turned up briefly at the exchange, witnessing the phenomena once again. The desert had a way of making strange skills into those who trumped death.

XxX

In plain defiance of Narelle's misgivings, Sin urged them onward down the mountains. As they neared the final few thousand feet of slope, they encountered increasing patches of areas that could not be climbed, and the qiraji Battleguards required more and more prompting to move. Fortunately, they had a sort of herd mentality, so if he could convince one, the rest followed.

The sun was behind them now, blocked by the cliff wall and sinking past the far horizon of Silithus, and there was speculation if they would sleep on the mountains again and continue searching the next day. Handon loudly complained that there wasn't a way down at all, hence why the elves never bothered protecting the "path." Narelle said nothing, but the gloat was obvious in her eyes.

As twilight began, with the clouds above beginning to change to dark purples, Sin found himself in another dispute with the qiraji. Around him, the bandits murmured at the continuous interference. Sin was especially frustrated, as they stood above a clear way down, yet once again, as if mocking, the slope neared vertical for the entire three hundred feet down. It was another two hundred feet vertical to climb back up the arm and go around.

"Look, Sekara, why ask for my help to take you out if you refuse to even enter the first area outside Silithus? If you will not enter Un'Goro, then turn around and return to Ahn'Qiraj, and may the o... Bah, take you all!" A deep frown settled over his face as he almost broadcasted the presence of the old god to all the former cultists.

"Sseen," Sekara pleaded. Sin could still pick up the qiraji expression for worry.

Arms folding, he returned, "No. You have to make the choice here. You want to live safe on this wretched planet, you have to move forward. You have to take the actions necessary to ensure your survival, and entering this Light-forsaken crater is one such action, and remarkably _easy!"_

"Sseen." She included a throaty whimper this time, playing at the pathetic card.

Sin glanced at her face, the tension tight in her form as she hovered barely off the ground. He growled and turned away, the war staff in his fist, and walked to the edge of the cliff that barred their way. Enough, he felt, was enough. _Shed'lahk_ seemed to purr with pleasure as it fed him the power he demanded, and Sin slammed its butt into the edge of the dirt.

With the dark thrum of power, birds took to the skies from the trees beyond, and creatures roared down below. A second later, there was the shriek and groan of stone as chunks began to rip free of the mountain wall, layer over layer, and formed a massive staircase from where Sin stood all the way to the floor below.

At the conclusion of the spell, a crippling weakness overtook Sin, sapping at his strength and reflecting his near empty mana reserves. _Shed'lahk_ seized advantage of the moment, invading further into his body at the weakness, tightening its hold and attempting to slide its tendrils closer to his mind and will.

Sin showed none of this outwardly, but he mustered all of his mental will and cloaked his mind in shadows, then began the counter-offensive. With the cool control of a warlock, he shoved back the dark presence within him, ignoring the nearly black smoke he was exhaling and the way the dark skin of his wrist began to crack, revealing a fiery vein beneath.

His exhausted body shuddered at the battle of the wills, but Sin found the small victory as skin resealed itself, covering the burning essence beneath, and the smoke returned to its faint white color, nearly unnoticeable, before vanishing entirely. The entity of the staff grew quiet, brooding over the case of its particular host.

Sin tried to speak to his armies, but he noticed the gravelly cast to his voice and stopped. He cleared his dry and parched throat, then announced in his usual voice, "Let us be off!" He began to descend the staircase of his making.

Narelle was the first to follow him, but she hung back nearly fifteen feet away. Her silver eyes were narrowed with suspicion, her heart still racing with fear. She had felt within the dark energy that the staff had released into the ground, and she understood the sheer power needed to perform this spell. Such was... impossible for a mortal. To even be on his feet following, he needed to be of the strength of perhaps Queen Azshara, or Prophet Valen.

Was such the forbidden strength of a warlock, or was it the power of that cursed artifact he never allowed himself to part with? What mental strength, or even physical, did he need to even wield such a weapon? She noticed by the slump in his shoulders and the way he dragged his feet forward that it had taken nearly everything he had for the spell, but the respect between huntress and prey grew shamelessly within her.

Narelle understood well the significance of this ally in the War of the Shifting Sands, and she knew she had been right to fear him as her target. Specter of the Sands indeed.

As the bandits also began to descend, marveling over the sudden pathway, the qiraji finally shook themselves free of their trance and began to follow. Their dark master finally led the way into the land of the Usurpers.

XxX

Sin de Rath entered his tent alone, seizing advantage of the chance to take a break from those he led. Not even Sekara was allowed inside with him now, though he wondered what method Blackmoon used to watch him from within. Poor Narelle, to be so wrapped into conflicts that were not her own and facing more shades of grey than even night elf wardens understood.

The tent was small, perhaps only six feet by eight internally, held up only by poles at the four corners. He saw his pack and still-bound bedroll residing at a corner, deciding to roll out his bed vertically against the right wall when the time came, then slid _Shed'lahk_ into the grassy dirt at the left. The black wood passed soil like water, down half of it's seven feet of length, and Sin released its haft.

Immediately, the tendrils within slid out of him through his hand, the thorns sliding out like the splinters they were, and Sin's body jolted as if with cold water. The burning essence within vanished, leaving cool, human blood flow, and his lungs filled with clean, pure air without the taste of ash and choking thickness.

And in that same instance, a deep want penetrated his soul to take up the staff again. Knowing its dark master, knowing its goal, he wanted to take it up again. Sin shook his head, relishing the relief even through the shadowed-mind trick, and he muttered a short spell, twirling his right wrist in a circular motion near the buried staff.

From the soil, clear strands of water escaped and rose magically like ghostly tentacles, and their spiraled around and around the black wood of _Shed'lahk._ When he had raised the spiraling water to the very top of the staff, Sin's chant changed pitch and words, and the spiral of water froze into hard ice. Minerals, salts, and sand carried with the water crystallized into white and grey veins and encased the column in its fine web.

Studying his construct with pleased eyes, Sin released his hold over arcane magicks and gently grasped that of the fel and dark. He snarled, gave a gutteral growl that retched into a repetitive hissing click, and then green light poured down from the crystal head of it in thin bars, giving the whole thing a green glow. When the light touched the ground, Sin released the spell, noting the lack of any influence upon his mind.

An Ice Barrier empowered by an Earthen Shield, and then locked with shackles of the Nether. Sin tilted his head at his precautions, then snapped his fingers once. A mental alarm enchantment for tampering or foreign proximity, just for good measure.

One could never be too careful.

Sin's next step was a summoning spell, invoking a contract nearly as old as he was. From the purple light, woven in a thousand symbols and letters, a small imp sprang free in a ball of flame, rolling across the ground once and hopping to its feet. The golbin-esque face of Quztal grinned at Sin, and he greeted, "Where's the fire?"

"Welcome back," Sin returned. Shifting his robes, he seated himself on his pack, facing the imp. "I'm going to need you to play doctor for a bit."

"Yeah, yeah, the _doctor_ is in- Whoa! Now that is one monster of a headache! Hatcha! Ow ow!" Quztal shook his head, springy ears swaying, and then faced Sin with a pensive frown. "Took one hell of a beating on the noggin, did you?"

"Focus, Quztal. I'm going to meditate and try to address the problem within. I need you to invade a bit, find the core of the problem for me, and together, let's work on cauterizing it."

The imp jumped back and forth on his feet, anxious. "You want to cauterize your _mind?_ Are you out of your brain?" Sin gave him a look, and the imp stared right back. "Well, if we do this, you will be!"

Sin sighed, leaning back on his hands, and he nodded towards the glowing, green column. "Look behind you. You remember what that is, don't you?"

Quztal turned, squinting and leaning in close – Sin could feel the tingle of his magics warning him of the proximity – and then the imp leaped back with a raspy shriek. "No, no, no, no, no!" he howled, then scurried behind Sin's leg, ducking under the hem of the robe. Peaking from underneath, he complained loudly, "You took up your mother's staff! What kind of idiot are you, huh? I've got four hundred and sixty six brothers, and none of them are as imp-brained as you!"

"I've faced some... difficult decisions as of late. The power will be necessary before the end, I fear. I feel it is time I stopped running from my responsibilities."

"And become the next Keeper? You're an idiot! Your mother asked you to hold onto it until your next return home, not take it for a spin!"

"Quztal," Sin sighed, unwilling to explain himself any further. The imp hesitated, but with another glance at the staff, it huffed loudly and slammed the hem of Sin's robes over his tiny head, hiding. "Quztal..."

"Sorry, Quztal isn't in right now. Please call back and leave a message at the explosion." Sin began to count to three within his head, yet on two, he heard the imp snap his fingers, and a ball of fire exploded in the middle of the room. Harmless, yet loud.

Sin inhaled deeply, holding it, and extended his count to ten. When it finished, he said, "If I cannot regain firmer control of myself, I am in greater risk of failing my duties as holder of _Shed'lahk._ We are all in risk, if I fail. Will you help me, Quztal?"

A short growl, and then Quztal lifted the robes again to peak up at Sin. He moved it only enough to let his glaring eyes and nose be visible over the purple line. He snapped, "Okay, okay, but don't say the name! Got enough nightmares without you reminding me of our famous little backdoor garden floating about in the Nether! Oh yeah, reminds me, your realtor called... she wants you to move your bloody cursed tree and all prisoners therein to _your_ world, not ours!"

Sin bent down and scooped up the imp, holding him in a headlock like when they had wrestled as children. Quztal squirmed and complained as he drawled, "Actually, you little spitball, that prisoner belongs to _your_ world, but if you want me to move the tree here and leave it there, I'd be _happy_ to-"

"Okay, okay, you win! You win! Let me go!" Quztal yelled, his struggle losing strength. He began slapping Sin's arm. "Tap out! Tap out!"

Sin let him go, and Quztal jumped to the floor, dusting himself off. "Geeze, what's an imp gotta do to get some respect down here? Azeroth, I'm telling you." Turning, the trickster faced Sin again, but with all seriousness. "Alright, start it up. We'll use some mind-fire, but Nether help me, you better know exactly what you're doing."

Sin didn't. "In we go."

XxX

"So that's it then?" Jern asked. One hand scratched his red beard.

The colossal trees of the east obscured the morning sun, and cool mists filtered about their camps with languid presence. They met post-breakfast, while the collected peoples were still groggy and deciding whether to break cap or return to sleep. Now that they were free of the Silithus Desert, there was nothing holding the bandits to Sin or the qiraji. The bargain was complete.

The party was five: Sin, Darnin, Handon, Narelle, and Jern. The elf remained in her warden dress but watched from the distance, crouched by a large, dead root. The bandits remained in heavy dress with their faded clothes and thick, sand-proof robes, though their veils had been down since first leaving the sandstorm. In his usual purple robes was Sin, the center of all the attention, and he still held his black staff.

To the question, Sin nodded. "We will take half of the supplies, but your path is your own now. Warden Blackmoon will remain with me. Thank you, gentlemen, for your brave work and assistance."

"About damn time," Handon sighed. He nudged Darnin with his bony elbow. "Come on, let's start up for Tanaris and find some heavy, heavy booze. I need to drink these memories away for at least a week before we kick up camp somewhere."

At the morning fires, many of the bandits were already boiling pots of water for the journey. Water was plenty in Un'Goro, as seen by the stream less than a mile from the rock wall they had descended, but in such a lively region, clean water was not. The runs were the least of someone's worries if they ingested it raw.

Darnin was not so eager. "And you, Specter? Where will you go now?"

Sin gave a vague shrug. "Somewhere that will satisfy my charges. If I am lucky, it won't be with a poisoned bolt in my back." He nodded in Narelle's direction. Those predatory silver eyes never once strayed from his visage. It was certainly unnerving, though he showed no concern of it.

Darnin nodded and rubbed the coarse stubble over his chin. "And if you do not mind me asking, what will you do following?"

There was no alarm at the question, but Sin easily recognized the probing questions as exactly what he had worried over in the beginning. He remained as obscure: "The world is an ever-changing place, more so now with the death of the Lich King. I will take a trip home and visit my remaining family, and then I will be out again, to lend my skills and power as I can."

The wiry bandit leader nodded, and after another scratch of his chin, he said, "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to continue with your group, at least as far as Tanaris. There are strength in numbers, and certainly the elves are hunting for our trail as we speak. Your travels will take you from Un'Goro Crater, will they not?"

"They will," Sin admitted tightly. There was a clatter as Handon's jaw dropped. Literally.

Darnin smiled, sending cracks through the tanned leather that was his skin. "I know that look, but the truth is I am unsure as what to do with my life now. These men look to me, and the Shadow knows they'll follow me, but I'm thinking about living on the right side of the law for once. Perhaps the goblins could use a stout team for lease or such."

"I suppose right with goblin law is right with a law, but not by right law, believe me," Sin mentioned, thoughtful. _Say that five times fast..._ "Alright, you can keep on with us, if that is what you and the rest wish. You must forgive me if things remain in haste though; I don't intend on turning this escort of mine into a year long excursion."

"Of course, Specter. Who knows what dire threats are out there, waiting?" Their eyes met and locked, and Sin recognized the wily challenge there. Darnin was letting him know, directly, that he understood something was going on. It was the unspoken question as to what.

_Fantastic,_ Sin dully thought to himself. "And for you, Jern, Handon?"

The undead skeleton folded his arms and glared at a tree, still without his jaw. Jern's beard twitched as he moved his lips thoughtfully. He admitted, "My destination is Feralas, which I believe means we must loop through Tanaris, Thousand Needles, and then we'll reach there. The journey will take us at least a month. I suppose we can do with some travel companions for a time."

Sin nodded and looked over to the camp. He finally said, "It is agreed then. When the water is properly stored, let's break camp and move on. Un'Goro is about forty-five miles straight through, so I'm guessing we'll be out in three days in this terrain with no interferences." Pausing, Sin reconsidered his following. Qiraji fliers, men of the desert, and one of the night elves' elite. This was not an army of basic infantry. "I suppose we'll just see."

The conference broke apart to perform their respective tasks. However, as Sin tied the rope around the bundle of his tent and poles, he noticed that Narelle had approached with her usual subtlety. She busied herself by adjusting her clawed glove while asking, "Darnin already suspects. It will not be long before he connects the change in the qiraji with the changed times, and he will know."

"Yeah? I hadn't noticed by the way he accused me right in the middle of the conversation," Sin declared flippantly. He tossed the tent by his bag, then unwound the cord that would hold his bedroll similarly tied. "Not much that can be done about it. He's a clever man."

"And a threat," she reminded, with just a lilt of emphasis. An apparently whimsical comment, as she still toyed with her gauntlet. One silver eye glanced over at him, a shadow of a smile on her purple lips. "If you'd like, I can eliminate that threat as we go. No one will suspect a thing. Something easily played off as him making a run off early by himself. Or with a few dozen others, should you prefer."

Sin finished binding his bed and added it to his pile, then faced her with a stern expression. Hands no long occupied, he drew _Shed'lahk_ from where he had buried it in the soil. No longer did the ashen presence infiltrate his being, though the wood burned under his fingertips, as if recently drawn from a fire. "You heard him yourself. He may be a changed man. Years of solitude in the desert can do that to you."

"I know you, Sin de Rath. You've worked as a peacekeeper, a bruiser, and a bodyguard for most of your life. You know better than to assume someone of his ilk 'changed for the better.' And if he did, what of his followers when they find out? Will their loyalty remain so unshaken? Or will they peel off to rush back to the cult, to later cross arms with us?"

Sin shook his head, turning back to his supplies and performing a quick check that it was all there. He said, "I hate the idea as much as you do, but I don't believe we can make the choice for them. If they choose to return to the cult, then they do. We'll tear them apart no differently when we get there. But this way, we do not make the mistake of killing men who would honestly remain apart, or even join humanity in the fight against them."

The warden crossed her arms before her chest. The stance widened the opening of her cloak to reveal more of her scandalously garbed body. She did not, apparently, believe in armor outside of her broad steel shoulders and the iron cloak. The rest of what she wore seemed no more than leather belts and harnesses to clip on more and more blades, centered around the narrow top and thong-like bottoms.

Sin guessed if her armor could parry for her, she really didn't need much else.

"That is not the attitude that your files outlined, so called 'Specter of the Sands.' You seem the type to be the first to kill before someone becomes a threat."

Sin was glad then for the shadows around his mind, for the burst of rage (even enhanced by _Shed'lahk_) hardly broke his calm. He delayed by beginning the summoning ritual for a demon, and only a few seconds later, his dreadsteed sprang free in an eruption of flame and molten soil.

The headstrong demon faced Sin challengingly, flaming eyes defiant, and as always, its will slammed into Sin's mind, vying for control. Sin's mind remained in a faint fog, mostly numb, since the previous night, and the bludgeoning mental attack was caught, detained, and overcome by his own. The demon snorted flames in satisfaction as Sin yet again proved himself worthy of being its master. It's flaming and armored head bowed.

While Sin began to strap on his supplies to its back, he finally replied to Narelle. The short battle helped put his mind in proper perspective – he was a master in this world, with slaves whom bowed to and looked to him, to serve him. She was just a silly mortal to be used until she was to be discarded. There was no reason to be angry.

"What I did in that war was necessary. Every night, infiltrated cultists pulled one of our own off the streets and butchered them, flayed from them their skin, for us to find later and be demoralized. They poisoned our food and waters, or weakened our armor and blades. They needed someone to finally act without moral regard, and Lynona and I were best suited to the task. Four men... Four men were, with all certainly, innocent yet detained, and the things we did to them were unspeakable. My best compensation, of a hundred gold to each, and another hundred to their families at home, will never – _ever_ – make up for it."

The night elf seemed nonplussed. "When men escape to the cult, and they contribute to the burning of villages and rape and murder of women and children, and they damn the world before we get to them, I will remind you of this conversation. I will bring to you the corpse of the most violated woman and show you the damage this decision could have prevented."

"And I will mourn, Narelle. Unlike you, I will mourn," Sin replied simply.

She opened her mouth hotly, ready to tear him to ribbons, but his tired eyes fell upon her, and the words died in her throat. A heavy frown settled on her face as she stared daggers at him, and then her head turned away. Sin turned back to his dreadsteed and mounted, then turned it to rejoin the camp.

As they walked, Narelle asked, "What is your plan for the qiraji? Do you know where we go yet?"

"I thought to kill two birds with a single stone, if we could. You know already about the silithid hives that broke free in the deep south of the Tanaris Desert. I'm hoping I can get Sekara and them to agree to seize control of the operations there. It gives them a home, and the silithid are no longer a threat. And considering it is over a week of desert travel to get there from the nearest town, I consider it quite safe, and it is also near enough the exact opposite side of the planet from _it."_

Narelle stated none of her thoughts on the decision, though she asked, "And how will you deter the ongoing military operations trying to purge the infestation?"

Sin smiled. "Tanaris is my home. If I tell the people that the problem is resolved, then they know that the problem is resolved. My mother would be glad to maintain order in my absence... and if there is treachery to be had later from the qiraji, I know she will be the first to rise up and utterly annihilate them."

"Your mother?" Narelle asked, actual emotion slipping into her voice. It was curiosity. No doubt, she had heard his argument with Quztal the previous night and heard the mention. He notice her glance at his staff.

"We all begin somewhere. She was my mentor, and she is the one who taught me courage and altruism in the self-serving, deceptive goblin world at Gadgetzan. She is a great woman, greater and more powerful than myself. I can only hope to match her legacy before my own demise. I am sure you will meet her before our time together ends."

The warden turned thoughtful. Sin wondered at her own family, likely millennia old now with the formally immortal night elves. Did they hold any significance to her now, or were they a forgotten relic of her past after years of war, strict training, and the solitude of her Watch?

She surprised him by following up with: "What of your father?"

Still, he smiled before answering. "He was also a great man, but for perhaps different reasons. A human Explorer's League member. He came here on their Uldum expedition. When all was said and done, he remained out here and was back and forth between their base camp and our house. He was an engineer and a marksman, a man of honor and... say, a fine attention to detail. I believe it was that trait that attracted my mother most to him."

"So that is why you put your faith in the hunk of metal you hide at the right of your waist," Narelle acknowledged, recalling the moment when the bandits had turned upon him and he had drawn his father's revolver.

"Yes. He had trained me in shooting and sharpshooting, and a bit into engineering before his untimely demise against a sand troll raid when I was but twelve years of age. That's enough of the history of your prey though. It's time to head out again." Narelle stopped at a rock, while Sin continued to meet the Battleguards. Looking back, he added, "And if you dare to use my mother against me in the coming days, I will burn everything you love to ash before coming for you. Everything. That is, assuming she doesn't tear you a new one in my stead for trying."

* * *

AN: Sheesh, never had to post an update without getting a review on the chapter before. Oh well, so it goes. Small community and all. Also, this is the last you see of Sin until Chapter 12, where he finishes up his part in the first stage of the story. Actually, I just finished writing that chapter today, hence my update now. Chapter 13, Malthon's, will conclude Stage One of The War of the Sightless Eye. Some really exciting stuff on the frontier of this story, with some very small glimpses of it in this chapter.


	9. Chapter 7: Decrepit Floe

Chapter 7

_Decrepit Floe_

* * *

Malthon wiped the blood from his hands with a dirty rag as he walked from the hospital tent to where Jayce and Balinda were waiting. His ears still rang from noise of the battle, now echoing with the pained cries of his men in the tent. They were all quiet now, healed to whole, but it would be some time before they finished recovering. Those that had been Redeemed from death would take even longer.

Light, what a mess.

In his mind, he could recall the whipping tentacles and screaming men, the blood and acid, the roiling powers of Light and the terrible shriek of the creature. He wanted to keep the memories as fresh and whole as he could, at least until they finished discussing it tonight. If only it didn't come with such terrible vividness.

He found the tent and reached out to moved aside the covering flap, only to pause. Blood still clung to his fingers, on the webs between, and splattered along the back. He sighed softly, clutching the rag and beginning to scrub yet again while shouldering the flap aside to enter.

Only two figures waited inside. Jayce sat straight in his fold chair, arms crossed before his breastplate and tabard, with the expression of one whom ate a lemon all at once. Across from him and standing, also with her arms crossed, was Balinda, with the most dangerous expression of steel on her face. Malthon almost wondered if it would be better to be back in the battle than in here.

Malthon had expected more to join them, Arvin and other veteran brothers, or at the least Terichon Galean, whom also knew Malthon from the churchyard of their training. However, like Balinda, Terry had chosen a more passive and quiet presence among the troops. He had never been very outspoken as a lad either, Malthon remembered. The others who did not appear here likely found their duties elsewhere.

"Alright, it is obvious enough why we are here," he started. His voice rumbled softly, after all the noise of the night. "None of us have encountered anything before like we have tonight, not even among the most bizarre of the Lich King's creations. We need to discuss our next plan of action."

Balinda spoke immediately, "Have you reconsidered your opinion of allowing me and ten others to search for the source of the Light's concern? Without a doubt, the night's encounter coincides with this danger."

"I have, and more than ever I am certain I need you here, with us," Malthon replied. He would brook no argument on the subject.

Balinda clearly understood the point. "Then there is nothing further for me to discuss," she announced coolly, uncrossing her arms and beginning to make her way towards the exit. Jayce watched her move, his dark eyes dispassionate.

"Balinda, stay for the rest of the discussion," he sighed. When her steely gaze fell upon him again, he added, "Please."

"You are no High General, Malthon, and certainly not mine," she snapped, unhalting.

When she reached him at the entrance, Malthon refused to budge from blocking her way. As her attention returned to his tired face, he said, "It was not an order. It was a request, from me." Jayce's bitter reaction was ignored as Malthon remained focused on the determined matron. "Do you really think you have nothing to offer, for the sake of everyone with us here?"

He stepped aside, letting her have the choice, and moved to a second chair and sat in an avalanche of clanking steel. The bloody rag was discarded to the side for now, and he rest his head in his palm for a moment. At the sound of a third paladin sitting down in a loud crash of metal, he nodded his thanks to her.

"As we know," Malthon continued, "our powers grow against the undead. The unique effects of tonight make it clear that this threat is something else entirely. Arvin's experiences coincides with this."

"What are Arvin's experiences?" Balinda asked.

Remembering that Jayce and Balinda largely avoided each other, he told her of the dwarf scout's Light-bound compasses, and then told Jayce of the Light's warning about this journey that both he and Balinda perceived.

"Do you believe this doubt is the Light's way of telling you your course is wrong?" Jayce asked after the explanations.

Malthon blinked at the question, as something he had never considered, but ultimately he shook his head. "I'll admit, that is a possibility, though I've never encountered anything like that before. However, I believe this is something closer tied to the night's attack. This... creature stripped from us the power of Light, made it nervous and even afraid. That is how the Light feels about this journey. There is something out there, something I've never witnessed, that has power far beyond that of the Scourge, something that stands as the utter antithesis of the Light... and I believe we will be brought into direct conflict with it by the end of our journey."

"You means there's more of these things?" The Scarlet commander asked. "That something might be leading these things out there?"

"That is the conclusion that Balinda and I have drawn, yes," Malthon told him. At the brunette's glance, he clarified, "Assuming. We agreed that something out there must be the source, but to encounter a... soldier of whatever this is means there must be a master behind it all." Balinda's lips pursed thoughtfully, but then she nodded her agreement.

"Perhaps it is something of this forest," Jayce suggested. "We have gone this far without issue, without repercussion. This could be the first of its retaliation."

"Then why was its shape that of an eredar?" Balinda asked. "It was a mess of a humanoid, but we can all agree that that was its base-shape. Its magic and spell-weaving only reinforces the idea."

Malthon sat up straighter, nodding. "Yes, that makes sense. The Burning Legion has attacked before. Perhaps, long ago when this was kaldorei lands, such an attack was shattered by the night elves, and when the corruption first overtook this forest in the eastern lands, one such demon was touched and transformed."

Balinda was on the verge of nodding, then paused. "The forest itself rose against the creature. When Malthon and I prepared to defend against its counter, that pink light blocked it for us. It had been no simple spell to negate either, assuming that had been an eredar spell-weaver."

"Well clearly the forest is fighting itself," Jayce returned, condescending. "Half of it _is_ corrupted, if you do not recall."

"I see someone was too conveniently sick to attend his "respect" lessons at the churchyard. It is no wonder you joined the Scarlet zealots."

"I followed the leadership of High General Brigitte Abbendis. Don't you dare accuse her of the atrocities of her father or the rest of the Crusade leaders," Jayce hissed.

"And yet you did not have the decency to bury her headless corpse! Malthon had to!"

"Enough!" Malthon growled over them both. "We accomplish _nothing_ by remaining divided. Nothing. We all serve the Light together, and we have _all_ made mistakes in doing so. Leave the past behind, and join me in addressing the future, if you will."

"And what are your mistakes, Lord Eyenhart?" Jayce retorted instead. "We have not all been blessed with the Light's very purpose! Where is the guilt that gnaws away at your conscious for every waking moment, and consuming your every dream at n-" His words cut out as he fell across the grassy floor of the tent.

Balinda shook out her fist after the punch, bright fury on her face. Malthon himself had fallen into a bitter silence, but he tried to muster a disapproving look for her. His heart was too glad for the interruption to make it meaningful. "That is enough, Jayce!" she whispered coldly. "Malthon has suffered no less than anyone here."

Malthon was surprised by the ardor in her voice. He had nearly forgotten she had been present at the time, back before the rifts had torn them into strangers.

Jayce spat onto the grass and pushed himself back to his feet. His dark eyes were further darkened by the rings around them, and he glanced between her and Malthon. Finally, he grunted, "My apologies," and strode out of the tent before either could reply.

When it was just Malthon and Balinda, they sat in silence for a long moment. Feeling the urge to fill the quiet, he began to speak, only for her to speak over him, "You haven't gotten over it, have you? I suspect you never will." He said nothing; she knew the answer already. Balinda shook her head, the silver strand of hair swaying before her eyes as a reminder, and then she looked at him, compassion in her gaze.

The look stunned Malthon nearly as much as her reply. He... hadn't thought her still capable of the feeling for him. He felt hard metal touch his bare hand, then seize it, giving him a single squeeze. _Why did things between us have to fall apart?_ He began to ask her that, even opening his mouth, then he stopped and closed it. The time for that had long passed.

"Thank you," he managed instead.

Balinda nodded, giving him one last squeeze, and then she released him. The topic changed as she asked, "Let me leave, Malthon. We need more information on this threat. Loan me our gryphon, and I can inspect the corruption for clues of our attacker."

"Is that what the Light tells you to do?" he asked quietly.

"You know what the Light tells me."

Malthon hesitated, considering the matter closer. Balinda was a very capable woman. She had behaved independently for years following the ruin of Lordaeron, and whenever they met, he noticed she had grown into a more and more mature woman, stern and proud, brave and righteous. The Light was strong in her, its purpose clear, even without a crown to protect. It would be selfishness to keep her around only for his sake.

"You will meet us at the Vanguard in six days," Malthon told her, conceding. "March with us tomorrow, until midday, then you may leave us."

A smile, it seemed, was still too far outside of Balinda's comfort zone, even in a talk as intimate as this. She nodded and thanked him, then stood as if she had to start getting ready this instant. "I will meet you at the Vanguard. I will not take kindly to lateness in times of this importance, so do not keep me waiting."

Malthon's eyebrows rose as she switched the liability to him. With a self-righteous nod, Balinda turned on her plated heal and left the tent. Whatever man married that woman would need nerves of thorium. And stones of granite.

Just then, Balinda stuck her head back inside, holding the flap up with her arm. "And do not let your position get inside your head while I'm gone. You are no High General, even if all these doe-eyed boys and girls look at you like so." She left again.

Definitely stones of granite.

Malthon idly wondered if she even heard, or chose to hear, the part about remaining with them until high noon. Eventually, he shrugged it off, noting, _Ah, classic Balinda._

He remained seated in the chair for awhile longer, rethinking the night and the conversation. As his mace grew uncomfortable at his hip, he pulled it loose and set it beside him, then sat in continued silence. The flickering candles were his only company.

For all his grumbling, and all the heat between Jayce and... well, between anyone and Balinda, she was a stout sister, and an addition he was glad to have on his side. They all did their parts in serving the Light, even Jayce who sat nursing his bruised jaw and ego in his tent now. Malthon did admit to himself he was surprised at how much pent up rage and misery the man held within at the actions of the Crusade he had been apart of. He hoped it would not lead his old friend into any rash actions, though it was clear Jayce could hold his head.

Strangest though was the conversation between him and Balinda at the end. It was like old times, when they had both finished their training at the churchyard and sat together as full brother and sister in Light. They were open and honest, to each other and little else. He could admit to the pressures of his father and his future responsibilities, and she could lament the lummox-headed _everyone_ she had to deal with.

In later days, they did not speak so freely. Balinda did not show him compassion, nor appeal to Malthon himself, rather than a brother paladin. Tonight was a fey night.

XxX

Malthon shook out his thick matchstick after lighting his one candle again. He inhaled a slow breath and exhaled, giving a glance to everything inside his tent. The blanket of his bed was turned to one side, where he had slipped out in the Light's trance. The spot he always laid out his armor was empty, as he now wore it.

His chest was battered and worn from travel, but its integrity was undeniably strong. The bronze frame was still immaculate. Next to it, both his chair and table were folded and ready to be stored away, leaving him no place to set the candle. He gently set the stand on his chest and began to relieve himself of his armor.

He noticed, in the flickering orange, the white stains where the acid had burned new grooves in the breastplate. Dirt and grass flecked his boots and leg plates. His left bracer still carried a yellow leaf from when he and Balinda had fallen together. Shaking his head at it all, Malthon finally set his pristine shield and mace atop the pile and turned to his bed in just leather breeches and a linen undershirt.

A white mar tugged at his vision, and Malthon saw the letter he had left out atop his chest. How forgetful of him. Right beside the candle too, in risk of burning up at a flaked wick or marred by a glob of hot wax. Frowning, he tried to recall why he had taken out a letter in the first place, or what the letter was about, and drew up a blank.

He sat on the edge of his cot and picked up the letter. Immediately, he noticed the fine material of it, well above the means of anyone that had lettered him before. This was a letter written on silk parchment. Certainly, someone must have left this for him while he was out.

Malthon glanced at his candle again, where he had set it, and a cold feeling settled in his gut. He had not seen the letter then. Unless it had been in enchanted hiding, this letter was placed there while he was still inside the tent, when he had been removing his armor. The Light hadn't warned him of the intruder.

With a stern look about the small confines, he saw no one. He chewed his lip in thought for a moment, then turned upon the missive. It was sealed, not by wax on a cloth parchment, but by a small leaf-shape woven into the fabric. Thumbing the seal, he found it to be gold leafing as well. Clearly, someone of financial importance had sent this, but whom among a force of paladins had the means (and personal grandiosity) to do so?

It was then the sweet, sweet scent of something exotic touched his nose. Holding the letter closer, it was clear this person had scented it. The smell made him think of life deep within Lordaeron's forest, surrounded by nature's true mysteries, at the lighter half of twilight, when the sky was half orange and half deep indigo, with the faintest touch of stars along the outer rim. It made him think of sitting on a firm stone beside a gentle stream, touched by the unending gurgle of it, with the safety of the night's fire before him, and on familiar, yet undiscovered, land. There was a part of him, however, that related the scent to the one time he had the displeasure of visiting a brothel in search of a commander, of the scent of smokey sex halls and deep, dark passions.

An odd mixture of scents, one that required a very fine hand of a tinker to perfume. The sensations gave him a strong suspicion as he thumbed open the leaf slip and unfolded the leather to view the inside. Flawless, finely detailed inking over the expensive fabric. Each line scrawled about in a deliberate way, touched and flowing like artwork. Unfortunately for the sender, Malthon did not recognize the language it was written in. It almost reminded him of the Thalassian of Quel'thelas' high elves, yet it was dotted and etched in unfamiliar ways.

His calloused thumb touched over the signed name at the bottom, following the path of the ink in its curve from the left to under, widening just before the finish a quarter inch past the start of the first letter. A practiced signature, certainly. Just below was a three-word line, plain and formal, which he assumed to be a title.

Kaldorei, he reasoned. The perfume, the lettering, the silk... His mind immediately recalled the woman that followed their army and that had visited him within his very tent. Yes, she had the means of delivering this letter without notice, and all the traits to leave one of such self-important quality.

It was a shame that night elves did not take to the Light like the other races of the Alliance did. They followed their goddess Elune and accepted her Light and no other; there were no Paladins of Elune. As such, there was none with him who could translate this letter for him.

With a final sigh, Malthon resealed the letter. Nifty touch, that, with how the leafing could be inserted back. However, it wouldn't tell him if the letter had been tampered with beforehand and unsealed prior to arrival. Malthon moved the candle and opened his chest. Finding the slender pocket that housed his actual letters, he joined this one with them for later. Before closing it up again, he hesitated, then thumbed through for one letter in particular.

The envelope had yellowed in the years following, making it an easy find. Gently, he lifted it above the rest and glanced at the bold, precise scrawl that came with an exaggerated and familiar curve to the lettering. _To My Lord Eyenhart,_ it read. Balinda's handwriting, when she was being mischievous. She hadn't curved her letters like so since this one, he suspected.

He didn't know how long he stared at those four words, but he found he couldn't remove it entirely and reread the contents. Shaking his head emboldened him enough to slip it back inside and close his chest.

Malthon laid upon his bed again with the candle still burning, and he turned away to face the blank tent wall. Because the Light had not warned him of the elf lurking through his tent, he assumed it meant her intentions were benevolent, and he knew he could sleep soundly tonight. It had been a long enough day and tiring enough night already.

He did not sleep.

XxX

All two hundred men and women stood before Malthon in the early morning light. He paced before them slowly once the last had joined them, nodding, and then began to speak:

"My brothers, my sisters, I want to discuss with you a bit the creature of last night before we all mount up and continue out. As many of you have surely assumed, it was not some fiend of the Lich King. He did not possess the Light-quenching power that this monster did. What that means is there is a new player in the field, one that is adding a new danger over our journey. Some of you have perceived this danger beforehand, or noticed a oddness to the Light as of late.

"At the moment, we are assuming the creature and this danger is some manifestation of this weird forest, but at high noon this day, our sister Balinda Crowngarde will take the gryphon out to determine the true face of this enemy. I fear that last night will not be our only encounter, so it will be good to be prepared.

"In the meanwhile, those of you that faced Redemption last night... I am in sorrow over your experiences. We will be merry to accommodate any special requirements for you over the next few days as your recover. If you need to be strapped to your chargers for the ride, tell a brother and we'll handle the rest. Now, find yourselves a quite meal to break your fasts, and let us be off. We proceed normally, Light-willing."

Arvin stroked his beard thoughtfully as half of their comrades saluted Malthon before turning back to their tents. He would not join the Scarlets in taking Lord Eyenhart as a new High General, though he felt the position could be warranted if Malthon had any desire for it. He watched the sullen Commander Jayce slink up to Malthon and break into a hushed conversation, then turned to his brother, Bardin.

Bardin Ironhawk was a mountain of a dwarf, even in comparison to Arvin. He recalled their youth, watching his brother alternate between mining with two pickaxes and simply cleaving the tunnels with a massive one, laughing merrily as he did. The Light had blessed him with awesome strength, sending him into training before their mother or father had time to teach him their crafts.

Such was Bardin's size that no armor set could fit his arms, leaving them bare to the shoulders. His hair was copper like Arvin's, braided about his head with two more in his forked beard. He looked like a vrykul hit by a gnomish shrink-ray. Despite his strength though, it hadn't saved him last night during the creature's attack.

With a nod, Arvin leaned over and scooped Bardin's arm over his shoulder. Even with the massive axe and plate armor, it was no burden. When Bardin gruffly tried thanking him, Arvin only shook his head and returned, "None of tha' now, brother. Let's get ya mounted up."

It was frightening to see Bardin so weak and stiff with the toll of death over him. The sheer idea of Bardin dying at all was far worse. His powerhouse of a brother, the one strongest in body and strongest in Light, had fallen. What chance would Arvin have against the same foe? What chance did anyone have?

Once Bardin was in his saddle with his legs tied down, and a warm plate of food in his hand, Arvin started at the feel of a heavy hand touching his head. He saw a tired smile on Bardin's face. "Spit tha' boulder out of yer mouth, ya drunken mess! I'm still 'ere, I t'ink."

"Wai'll I tell Da' about yer blasted shenanigans. He'll socket yer face right 'ere between yer eyes!" He tapped his nose for reference, and they both laughed softly. "Now eat yer strength back. I've got a trail tah find."

At the head of the force, Arvin continued to lead them, with Malthon and Jayce at his back. He kept his complaints to himself as he watched the ground and consulted the Light. Above him, the trees and branches continued their fey shifting around, appearing different from every angle, and he prayed they remained on course. With every step forward, the Light's warning grew stronger and stronger, painting a brilliant arrow to run in the opposite direction, but for the sake of his friend Malthon and everyone else, he ignored it.

Once the sun reached its zenith, Arvin slowed them for a break, letting their horses rest. While Malthon saw that spitfire Balinda off, Arvin shared a loaf of bread with Bardin. "I've chewed boulders softer than this!" he shouted to his brother as they ate, bringing cheer to his face. "Migh' as well fix 'er to a stick and smash a new tunnel for our home! Or mine me a pretty diamond!" The bread was simply awful, but the time was priceless.

At the conclusion of the meal, Arvin approached Malthon before they mounted up again. Compared to a dwarf, the human was tall, nearly as hulking as Bardin with the armor on. His suit was specially crafted, as one of Lordaeron's nobility, with fine lines of engraving and paint. The insignia of his people was done on his breast and shield. Though he kept his shoulders as smooth bulbs, Malthon had one of the finest sets of blessed armor among them.

He shared a nod with the blond human first, greeting him, then said, "If you have a minute, I wanted to bring something up about our trail."

"Certainly," Malthon replied. At the moment, his gauntlets were off as he washed his iron plate after his meal. "What is it, friend?"

Taking a breath, Arvin said, "It's about the trail again, and the branches. I think I discovered what has me so befuddled."

Malthon's large hands paused in their work for a moment, before he nodded slowly and resumed. "I'll listen, but hear me when I say I am more worried about those who reason the madness of the forest than those who remain disdainful of it."

"My mind is clear, Malthon," Arvin growled. "Not everything needs to be shrouded in secret, even here. It was simple too, when I took the time to actually study the matter. It goes like this: when passing under a branch, the lower one might be thick at the right and thinning to the left, and above it a slender one thinning to the right. On the other side, you'd think such would be reversed – thick on the left now and thinning to the right, because it's the same branch just on the other side.

"The case isn't so. More often than not, that same branch is still thick on the right, or strangely it's the higher branch, rather than the lower. It was difficult to tell when moving fast beneath, but the change is clear when walking under."

Malthon had dried his plate and hands, setting it aside, and rubbed his short beard at the explanation. "Alright, I do not doubt you, but what is the significance of this? We have not fallen lost because of a few leaves and branches, have we?"

"No, sir, and that's precisely what worries me. The change in branches isn't the forest: someone has cast an illusion before the path we follow, but rather than lead us astray, this illusion is guiding us where we wish to go, alongside the river. It's _helping_ us, and that worries me even more."

Malthon frowned and crossed his arms. After a moment, he muttered, "The forest fights the forest here." Arvin himself frowned at the phrase, about to ask after it, but Malthon straightened. "I am going to say we should not worry at all, friend. The Light tells me no warning about this illusion, but what I fear and know is that this forest will try to kill us for the trespass at first opportunity. I believe that... someone is keeping the forest from leading us astray, indeed helping us, and I believe I know who, if not _why."_

"Care to share?" Arvin asked. He moved to sit on the same fallen log Malthon was on. His fingers combed his beard in thought.

"The first night, the nightwatch picked up on someone following us, some kaldorei woman. I thought her nothing more than a ghost, but since then, she – or at least her actions – have made several appearances following. If she is one of the highborne, then she has the power to guide us with such an illusion."

"If the Light says you can trust her, then I'll trust her, Malthon," Arvin sighed. "But I will say, this whole quest is wrought with blight. I want more answers and less questions."

"You and me both, friend," Malthon told him, looking a bit weary himself. "Come on, let's mount up. The sooner we are out of this forest, the sooner we can face the more familiar horrors."

"Sounds like a bright and sunny day of Scourge-hunting. I'll be glad to see it," Arvin agreed, pushing himself back to his feet. He felt his rifle shift against his back, under his shield. He would need to re-fix the bindings.

Once he was back on top of Slatemane, his charger, Arvin called the men back to their steeds, and they began the march again.

Malthon may not realize it, but he was the most crucial of them, Arvin felt. From what he understood of the confusion of the last night, between Bardin's experiences and the rest, they might not have won out against the creature. By stripping the Light from them, they became no more than two hundred footmen in heavy armor. Malthon was unique though; the Light could not be stripped from him, not entirely, and that was the reason for their victory.

So Light protect him. If it came down to it, Arvin knew he would pay the ultimate price for the fledgeling lord, for the sake of the many.

Light protect him.

XxX

The days came and went without further issue. Only once did Malthon catch sight of their elven stowaway, seeing her hover around the tents late at night before disappearing between a narrow aisle when she noticed him. Twice, he thought he saw silver eyes peering back from the shadows, but that could have been anything. On the eight day, Arvin stopped them to let an ancient tree warder pass by, and during a bath on the ninth, Malthon caught sight of several nymphs before they scattered back into the wilds.

It was just passed noon of the tenth day when Arvin cried out, "Ahoy! Saronite gates before us!" Fauna scrambled out of their path as their charge picked up to full speed, and they came storming out of the golden forest with loud cheering. Leaf-covered soil became mulched ice, and they skirted the edge of the icy waters below the dam.

At the southern end of the dam, the ice was smoothed into bulbous hills, and the slope up became more gradual. The paladins that had earned their chargers banished the steeds back into the Light. Any true paladin of note would have earned one, through the long trials of sacrifice, the barding and its blessing, and the eventual redemption of the steed of a death knight.

No longer undead, their steeds were part of the Holy Light, and could be called forth and released as easily.

A good number of the Scarlet paladins did not possess chargers; if raised a paladin after the fall of Lordaeron, the years of tribulation following did not permit them the same freedom to travel about the world on the required quests, to visit the Ancient Equine Spirit and beyond. Such was the reason for their stop through Wintergarde in the Great Dragonblight.

Now, Malthon and his men moved on foot up the treacherous slopes, and they very carefully guided up the horses that remained among them. Though Arvin mentioned the feeling of dread from the Light had not waned, it no longer directly him directly away from their current path, and he worked with it to find the trails that kept their horses from slipping to untimely deaths.

At the top of the frozen wall, the paladin army found themselves on familiar ground. Icecrown Glacier stretched before them with its frozen wasteland. The chunky slope cut off their view at a half mile along, so they could not see what horrors still roamed the land, but such was not their destination. Malthon called them back onto their chargers, then took the lead to the east.

The Argent Vanguard was only ten miles from their position. Inside, there would be supplies, rest, baths, and everything good in the world after a long march. Their horses churned up the snowy ground with Light-driven sureness as they moved. It took only twenty minutes to spot the narrow canyon that led into the Vanguard's nook, and ten after that to be running through.

During the hard run, Malthon kept glancing up the icy walls to see figures stationed on top, but he frowned at seeing nothing. It wasn't like the Argent Crusade to fall lax in their vigilance. His time marching with them had retaught him the meaning of the word.

The tide of his men poured out of the canyon into the valley. For the first few seconds, the whiteness of the snow was blinding, preventing Malthon from seeing very far in the distance. In short order, the vision cleared, revealed the rugged war-machines broken down from the old attacks, the spattering of dead trees and brush, and in the far, far distance, raised on a small plateau, was the Argent Vanguard, only five miles further.

It took Malthon a few seconds to realize that the dark grey print above the distant stronghold wasn't an after-burn of the blinding snow. No, it was clearly large billows of smoke. Something massive was burning there.

Jayce and several men shouted in alarm a few seconds later, and Malthon raised his fist in the order of a full charge. Their strong horses, so powerful and well-suited for the harsh travel, snorted and panted from their already long march, but as their riders urged them on, they thundered on at breakneck speeds.

In only a matter of minutes, they crested another slope and saw more clearly their destination. The Vanguard was burning, near the latter stages to be precise. Crown seemed to sense his rider's fears, neighing loudly in between steps, and the faithful steed continued onward.

A mile out from the stronghold, Malthon slowed their charge to a walk. There was no need to wear out their horses now; they were clearly too late to be of any help. It was then that he noticed a white shape rising from the ashes. Malthon let out a small breath of relief when he noticed it was a snowy gryphon, with a rider on its back. Balinda...

The paladin touched down before them, her face etched with a strange severity. Malthon noticed then, with some surprise, the red blood caked in her hair, and the wild scratches, dents, and other mars over her armor. A poor reconnaissance, but Light be thanked for her skill and durability to survive whatever she faced.

Nodding to her, Malthon said, "We will have a long talk about this very soon, but first, we are running low on food. Did anything survive in there?"

Slowly, she shook her head, as the others began to gather around him and Balinda. They managed to hear her say in a scratchy voice, "Nothing... Nothing survived in there, Malthon. The people, the livestock, the armaments... Hell's Bells, even the stones did not survive in there."

"Did you see anything before our arrival?"

The battered sister nearly glared, but her firm shoulders seemed to slump. "I saw... more than enough, Malthon. It was all I could do to keep Cloudrend alive through it all."

Noticing the chipper state of the bird, Malthon mentioned, "I mean here. Are we safe to camp here and put the city to rest, or could they be lurking nearby? Nothing went out the canyon in the last hour."

Balinda broke into a dry cough, from the smoke likely, but she shook her head. "I followed some tracks leaving the city. They go up the cliff wall, apparently in large leaps. Nothing human." Gesturing to where a few dwarves and a draenei stood, she clarified, "Nothing humanoid. They've... all left, whomever they were. However, I did find this. A banner, mounted in a black circle of blighted snow. They left their mark for us to find."

A rough linen cloth was being pressed against her stomach, and she gingerly reached out with it for him to take. Her motions were stiff, hopefully due to her time in the saddle rather than pain. Malthon took it, and with all eyes on him, he unraveled the white cloth.

Apart from the panting of their horses, there was absolute silence as everyone stared at the sigil. It was a three-lined circle, or three black circles inside each other like a bullseye without a pupil. Three black circles on a white banner. Malthon had never seen it before, nor heard of anything similar to it.

Holding the banner up, he announced, "Everyone take a clear look at this... The mark of our enemy."

* * *

AN: So, as of yesterday, I finished the entirety of "The First Stage: Assembly" of WotSE. There is a total of 13 chapters at the present, though I suspect there will be 14 around the time of the next update as I rework Chapter 2 (and likely split it). Also, The First Stage totals 157k words of story. I said it before and I'll say it again: some really exciting things are coming up in this story. I believe I ended each character's part in The First Stage rather strongly, and the direction of the story should be clear... Well, clear up until Ghat's counter-stroke.

More importantly is how this story is progressing to you, the readers. Am I unveiling too many characters too fast? I don't expect you to have down the names of everyone (like Thomas' rangers), so I try to keep it clear with enough reminders on who is who, but is it getting confusion? My own fear is that I switch between the stories too fast (every chapter) and you don't have time to learn them before forced into learning someone new – and worse still is the slow-ish updates, which enables you to forget over time, rather than take in the whole story in one go.

Because of that, you can expect two things: Fast updates for now (several a week, surely. Maybe every other day) and in The Second Stage, more chapters devoted to one character at a time (like Sin's North Wind and Storm were), until something is accomplished or put into place. So tell me what you think on that. Or don't; It's kind of like talking to a town of ghosts here sometimes.

*(There will be 3 to 5 Stages in this story, none as long as Assembly is. A sequel is confirmed)


	10. Chapter 8: A World Changed

**Note:** Two changes have been made in the story before this. Due to finals in college and general life stuff, I've forgone a full rewrite in Chapter 2 in favor of just extending the scene between Thomas and Sarrine atop the mushroom.

Secondly, since I write this story away from home and an internet, I rely nearly entirely on memory. Because of that, I made a mistake in calling the champion vrykul "Ymirjon" instead of the proper "Ymirjar." This has been fixed.

* * *

Chapter 8

_A World Changed_

* * *

X Ranger X

Thomas flinched at the deafening crack of thunder, arriving just too late to see the nearby lightning. Immediately following, there was silence on Azeroth, no matter the ringing in his ears. The crater where the Dark Portal resided was barren, with only rotting wood and rusting steel debris remaining from the previous war effort. One jutting pole gathered the next bolt of lightning, and Thomas enduring the following roar.

Much sooner than they were supposed to, Genveera and the other rangers sprinted through the portal, bows drawn and eyes sharp. The area was abandoned though, at least in this crater. Thomas let go of the shadows around him and gave a nod to Jerath. The bearded man quickly threw his bow over his shoulder and ran back through the portal, to tell the others to come through.

Thomas made his way up the berm of the crater, with Sarrine quickly taking her place at his side. The others followed suit, moving up to take vantage from the top, while Jerath and the first of the Exilee began to march through the portal.

They had finally made it. They were back on Azeroth, everyone of them alive. His promise had been fulfilled.

Atop the rim, the red-dust land was painted red further, and speckled with black like pepper. White bone and colorful cloth were the only exceptions – splashed and streaked, but still stark in contrast. Hundreds, thousands, of bodies lay in unrecognizable pieces before them, and the vultures and other carrion birds were glad for the seemingly endless feast.

Only when they reached the top did the smell reach them, of meat, blood, and innards. Sarrine shuddered at his side, quickly turning away but drawing her bow. The other rangers did the same, notching arrows loosely and giving the land a hard stare. There was no sign of whomever had won the battle here, nor of any wounded.

Nor any corpses whole enough that they might consider possibly alive.

Thomas inhaled the grisly air, recognizing easily the lack of rot or aged death, then began to make his way forward. This had been no battle, he began to recognize. His eyes picked out golden insignias, the wear of simple travelers, the occasional arms of Alliance military or townsmen militia. The smooth, round plate of a knight's spaulder, the unmistakeable red drape of a paladin. An assemblage of parts – no wholes – but through it all, Thomas noticing nothing displaced.

There was no Horde, no creature, no weapon nor scrap, that did not suit that of the droves of Alliance refugees that they had passed previously. All this at a detailed glance, but his eyes could see so well... So painfully well that this had been no battle. It had been a butchery, and this was the killing fields.

"_Did we step out onto the wrong planet?"_ Loraeoth asked, his voice daunted like they all felt. _"Surely we've come to the wrong place. We should go back and try the Dark Portal again."_ Another bolt of lightning and ear-shattering thunder punctuated his words. He had the sounds of hysteria settling in.

"Don't be a fool, Loraeoth," Farron shouted over to him, already throwing his bow back over his shoulder and tucking the arrow away. He was walking towards Thomas. "Welcome back to Azeroth, our home of madness. Peace is not required."

The flippant reply was bitter, but not so much as Dor'rath's: "But apparently pieces are."

"_Easy, Dor'rath. Respect the bird chow,"_ Farron chastised, showing no real concern. "Lo, Shadow! Do we slosh through the red bog or shall we skirt around? Smells like disease hasn't settled yet."

Sarrine spun, cheeks red and chest puffed with an angry huff, "Farron-!" Thomas stopped her though with a hand on her wrist. She looked back, eyes wide and demanding.

"_Morale,"_ he whispered to her. He understood Farron's game, making light of the devastation. What would happen when the rest of the army witnessed this? What will their reaction be? Already he could hear the excited clamor building behind him in the crater.

Traditional Meyanna followed Farron's example, putting away her bow. _"We should put them to rest, as best we can. It's... It's not right."_

A cold feeling settled into Thomas' spine as a memory arose, of his conversation with the Commander not so long ago. _"They don't even have the decency to bury the dead afterward, and they will ambush you if you try to do it yourself,"_ the man had said. Thomas' eyes moved to the hills beyond, to the edges of the sea of blood, watching for any flicker of movement.

"_Our first act upon returning to Azeroth should be burying the past, not a field of corpses,"_ Genveera countered, with traces of forlornness under the steel.

Jerath arrived to overhear her, and he frowned under his golden beard. Upon catching sight of the butchery beyond, he quickly dropped to the ground and placed his ear there. Thomas had thought there too many feet from the Exilee to hear anything, but soon Jerath was standing and shaking his head. _"Whoever it was isn't moving out there. Nothing is."_

"_Could they have gone through the portal already?"_ Genverra pondered aloud. _"Slipped by us in the storm?"_ As if a reminder of the smaller one here, lightning forked down on a broken, metal-tipped abatis nearby. The crackle of it interrupted any reply. _"Or should we assume they're still out there?"_

By then, the rest of the rangers had gathered into a small group around them. Velanee, however, addressed another matter, _"More importantly, now that your promise is fulfilled, Thomas the Swiftblade... what will you do?"_

The reminder seemed to startle the collection, most forgetting that he was in fact not one of them. He had only offered, so callously, to guide them through to Azeroth and vanish after like his title, nearly a month ago. Now the time had passed, his word of safety fulfilled, and all that was left was his departure.

Commander Raeloth saved him from answering, now marching up the slope of the berm with several of the non-ranger officers of their army. _"Pardon the interruption, but the army is wondering what the next step is?"_ Cresting the crater, he beheld the killing fields and paused. _"How unfortunate. A lot of that blood still seems wet; we can likely march through before disease sets in."_

There was the beginnings of prejudice in the camp, between the rangers and the rest. Thomas, who stood at the front of the whole Exilee, gathered around himself only the rangers, and anyone with eyes and ears knew that he was stylized much after rangers himself, despite the rumors of his utter lack of mana. The other officers felt the gap between the two groups, sympathizing more with Commander Raeloth as their leader. Such had been Thomas' hope, but all combat seemed to paint him in an even brighter light as a hero.

He found himself speaking without even consulting the many thoughts built over the last few restless nights. _"It is clear that the world is at war now. The Green Army must hold its form for a time longer, I fear."_ He strode forward several paces, then turned to face the collected mass of them, all the officers of them. "The exile of the Exilee is over. My promise has been fulfilled. _Now, as I also promised, I will leave peacefully and return control of your fate to yourselves..."_

His eyes met those of the rangers he had come to know: Sarrine, Genveera, Jerath, Farron, Velanee. Upon the last, his gaze lingered, and her eyes held the unspoken question. He looked to Raeloth. _"If rumor is to be believed, Stormwind and Silvermoon have fallen – perhaps other capital cities too. I shall travel in great haste to the human realm of Azeroth, to Elwynn Forest, where I hope to find my friend and mentor. Such is an elf that puts all my skill to shame and is far more suited for leadership than myself."_

Taking a last deep breath, he concluded, _"The Exilee is welcome to join me, but from this point on, I cannot promise the safety of even a single life. I march through dangerous times to make my way into the war itself. My kingdom has fallen, and my very race is threatened by extinction if we do not rise against the tide of this new foe and secure our continuity. You blood elves have lost more than enough already, with tidings of an even grimmer fate. I will not ask you to sacrifice even more, but any blade, any bow, any tongue of magic is welcome at my side."_

There was no hesitation. Velanee moved forward two steps, then knelt before him with her bow offered. Her eyes locked with Thomas', and they shared a nod of understanding. Sarrine, his short lover, followed suit, as did Farron and Saela and Genveera and then all of the rangers. No longer did they appear as elven-faced sticks. Hearty meals and light training had shaped the elves back into their enchanting, slender forms, with lithe muscles sloped over their bones packed with denser strength than any human's.

Raeloth was nodding at those kneeling as he adjusted his cuffs. Then he stepped forward a single pace, drew his sword, and joined them on his knee with the point pressed into the red soil. _"You have put the Green Army into my command, and so speaking for us all, I pledge the Exilee back to their Deliverer. Ranger-General Thomas the Swiftblade you shall be called among us, for Ranger-General you are. My only request... is that you remember the rest of us, who are not of the bow."_

Even knowing what the future held, they all knelt before him, officers included. Thomas hesitated as he stared at them, reminding himself of his inexperience, then he nodded and took Sarrine's hand, helping her rise. _"Stand. Stand, friends... I have not forgotten the rest of the army, Commander Raeloth. I simply know the workings of rangers and rogues best and used them to secure our safe deliverance. I wished for the whole to look to you for guidance. If this is the path you will follow along, then no more will I ignore any soldier – so long as you understand the risks you take."_

The commander, now back on his feet with the sword sheathed, smirked. _"We _are_ soldiers, sir. We understand."_

Thomas recognized how foolish his words sounded then and was grateful the commander's jest was light. Shaking his head, he said, _"There is no easy way through to the kingdom of Azeroth. Travel by road will be fastest, and we must move with great haste. I know many still recover from the starvation in Netherstorm, but I must pull from you whatever energy you've harnessed since. Give the order, Commander."_

"_Yes, sir!"_

XxX

Rather than the head of the army, Thomas marched at the rear. The rangers were with him, and while trotting along, they discussed the name that their honor guard would take. Thomas left them to their devices, amused, and noticed when they held one in longer consideration. "Leaf Blades" seemed to strike a liking. Dor'rath, the most roguish one of them, even proposed their blacksmiths rework their slender daggers into actual leaf blades.

Raeloth and Genveera remained in the center of them with Thomas. He took the time to explain everything he knew about the new threat, from the words of Ysiel to the unnamed human lord. The commander thanked him, and then the three discussed possibilities and plans. They did not even know who was responsible for this destruction, nor where the enemy was centralized. Perhaps it was the Legion that had struck, or the trolls in uprising, or the titans had returned in great fury following Algalon's defeat.

Information was their secondary goal when they reached Elwynn or from anywhere along the way. The latter seemed far more likely, until they saw that Nethergarde Keep was completely abandoned. No bloodshed or destruction – just empty save for wind and memories. The gryphon roosts were barren too.

During the climb up between the mountains that separated Blasted Lands from the Swamp of Sorrows, Jerath made his way to the center of them, to Thomas. He said, in Common, "Something is following us. It's quiet, but I think it has since the portal."

Thomas nodded. "I sensed it too. I've been trying to puzzle out its identity since. It's only one creature, but I cannot tell if its one of the butchers of those humans, a scout for them, or a native hoping to throw its lots with an army. All I know is that it moves through the shadows as well as I can."

Jerath nodded. "It's a creature of magic, too. I first caught wind of it from the mana it exhales. Perhaps a magister or refugee elf."

Thomas rubbed his chin for a moment, shook his head. "Not an elf, unless it is like the Felbood variant. Its steps sound lopsided, so it can only be bipedal if one side is significantly heavier than the other. And some part of it drags along, or occasionally scraps the ground from being so low. That scratching too... I can only think of a claws, talons, or some strangely spiked boots. Maybe a light weapon touching the ground?"

Genveera stared between the two of them, her green eyes bright and wide. Clearly, she hadn't noticed due to the sound of them all running. She listened for a few moments, then shook her head and turned her attention upon the problem itself. "Could it be dangerous?" she asked, join them in speaking the human tongue. Her accent was far less obvious than Jerath's. "In Outland, I have seen creatures that could be responsible for that slaughter on their own... That mana beast the Shadow saved us from, at Manaforge Ara, was one."

The possibility unnerved Thomas. His mind connected such a monster with the slaughter, which was tied to the new threat. If this enemy had an army composed of such beings... He thought of the War of the Shifting Sands, were such monsters demolished ranks upon ranks of soldiers, Horde and Alliance both. What if they hadn't had the jump on the old god then? Hadn't been the ones to bring the wall down at their own prompting, when they were ready?

He hadn't been part of that war, but he read all the reports and stories. He knew enough to be afraid, between that and the ones of Yogg-Saron.

"I won't strike until I know it is an enemy, nor will I let it threaten our people at its own choosing. I chose to trail our army to stand between it and us, but now I think we should shake it loose of our trail entirely. Deynora!"

"_Shadow,"_ the woman addressed, bowing her head and joining them at the center. That drew the attention of the rest of the rangers, and each ran much closer to them now, to listen in. It interrupted their conversation of "Sun Walkers" versus "Shade Walkers" in names.

Thomas looked to Raeloth. "Commander, I have something in mind that involves our magisters. Tell the Arch-Mages to gather those strongest in matters of the arcane and elements and report back to us here."

As the commander made off to find the nearest officer, Genveera asked, "What did you have in mind?"

Thomas pointed to the two mountain peaks that their path cut between. The formation was jagged and full of boulders. "Landslides aren't common on this path. However, with the right incentive..."

XxX

The rangers were the last through, escorting the magisters back quickly as the very mountains around them began to split apart. Thomas stood at the middle-ground with Deynora, between the falling rocks and the retreating army. The woman that was both magister and ranger glowed bright with mana, with pink and lavender lines swirling up and down her arms, as she guided the sundered earth into falling into a stacked blockade. Her eyes glowed like dazzling emeralds.

Whatever was following them realized the predicament. There was a loud shriek, and something dark phased into existence only a hundred paces away. _So close,_ Thomas realized, feeling a low pulse through his stomach. He had assumed himself more capable than that in picking up a hunter.

Staring at their follower, Thomas realized he couldn't recognize what it was. It was crouched low to the ground, on all fours, like a black wolf. But his eyes seemed to slide off its body, making the details impossible. He could better trace a shadow against a moonless night. But it's size, he realized was like a matured kodo, and there was an odd assortment of limbs that didn't match up. How many legs did it have? Six like a crocolisk? Then what were those arms?

He drew an arrow as the first boulders began crashing down onto the path in a thunder of noise. There were eyes at least. Two or four, he could not tell, but they glowed green like Deynora's did now, giving him a target. Abruptly, at the start of the rock fall, two of the creature's arms snapped forward, and Thomas felt the tingle of new magic join Deynora's – just then her chanting voice hitched and she stumbled back, clutching her throat. Her spell cut off like the snap of a rope.

The landslide was no longer controlled.

Thomas fired his arrow, then another. The first struck an eye. The creature deflected the second with another spell and wailed so loud the voice had to be enchanted. A boulder the size of a house crashed down only a few yards before Thomas, cutting off his view of the creature and reminding him of the urgency of escape.

Grabbing the coughing Deynora by the shoulder, he sent them back, away from the rocks. The roar of the landslide remained a furious storm every step of the way, until Thomas assumed them far enough away. He stopped and turned, looking back to see the rock wall blocked by clouds of dust, but the top was visible as a stagnant point a good fifty feet high. The creature would not be climbing that easily, he hoped.

"It..." Deynora's words cut off for another violent coughing fit. She finally croaked, "Mage-eater."

A felhunter? Sure, Thomas had witnessed them grow to that size, but... everything about that was all wrong. The shape, the feel, the connection to shadows. Yet, somehow the description seemed to fit, in some bizarre way. The Legion was involved somehow, he concluded, and that was a whole new source of worry.

The sun had long vanished over the western mountain range, and Thomas knew they were less than an hour from twilight. They had marched far and long, even better than he expected. Handing Deynora a skin of water to drink, he said, "The orc town Stonard is nearby. We will rest there and hopefully get some answers. Come on, let's rejoin the troops. You did well, Deynora."

The other rangers were waiting for them with the magisters, a few dozen yards farther. Deynora remained hunched into herself for the moment. She drank some and spat, then finished the skin. Handing the empty sack back to him, she nodded to him. "Let's go." Once she straitened again, rubbing her throat, they moved on.

XxX

They found Stonard to be locked up tighter than a goblin's money chest. The forest around the village had been removed to upgrade their walls to a thick barricade, adorned with outward spikes, ramparts for their sentries, and a menacing gate of triple-barred iron that wouldn't easily be battered down.

It took Thomas only a few seconds to devise a way in regardless, as he was a rogue, but his intentions were peaceful. "Lo! We come to make peace and join your defenses for a night!"

The two orc guardsment stationed above the gate snarled at each other, grunting harsh orcish, then shouted at them in the same savage tongue. Genveera, beside Thomas, translated in Common, "They say that the blood elves are welcome, but you must remain outside." Another shout, this one brazen. Genverra's nostrils flared, and she added, "They beg you to disagree with the request, so that their shadow hunter can send you to the grave."

Thomas nodded. He walked forward, standing before the army and alone now, leading the guardsmen to shout in surprise and scramble to get their bows in hand and throwing spears ready.

"You have no shadow hunter!" he told them. "But I have elven rangers, assassins, and the finest magisters of the realm with me! Open your gates and we will bolster your defenses for our stay, or strike me and you will die before the first spear hits the ground!"

The orcs grunted at each other, in strong disagreement, while the others on the wall began shouting, adding to the confusion. After a few long moments of their arguing – two of which looking about to get physical – another face peaked up on the wall, having just arrived. It was someone of pale skin, revealed to be a blood elf, and she gasped in Thalassian, _"By the Sunwell! Open the gates, you green-skinned buffoons!"_ She barked the command again in orcish, pushing the men towards the levers to open the gate.

As the heavy gate began to crawl open, Raeloth stepped up beside Thomas and coughed to catch his attention. He muttered in Thalassian, _"Threatening your way in, sir?"_

Thomas' smile was sheepish. _"Perhaps not the most diplomatic, but to the point – I figure the orcs appreciate bluntness."_

Upon the locking of the gate in place, the blood elf ran out, holding her robes above her knees in her hurry. The joy shone bright on her face, as did the hint of desperation. _"Greetings, friends! Blessings of the Sun upon you!"_ Seeing Thomas with the obvious commander, she curtsied them, adding in accented Common, "We welcome you to Stonard. Tell me, from where do you march? Have the Alliance or Horde sent you as reinforcements?"

"We will tell of all, if we may come inside," Thomas replied. He gestured with a hand behind him. "My men have marched hard for leagues beyond counting. We would appreciate rest; we have our own supplies too, so you need not worry about any burden."

Looking at the army behind him and Raeloth, the elf sighed, "I had not dreamed so many warriors remained." Louder, she asked, "How many are you? I'm afraid I will not hold the final decision here, and our town is already stifled with our three hundred."

"We are over five hundred," Thomas admitted.

Loud shouting from the gate interrupted them, as a grizzled orc marched forward with a guard of fifteen hulking orcs. He was shouting in orcish; Thomas' understanding of the language was minimal at best.

Genveera remained his translator, muttering in an emphasized tone, "'Ysanna, what is the meaning of this? ...Under whose authority have you opened this gate? Certainly not your own!'" The woman, Ysanna, turned and snarled back a reply in the harsh tongue. It came awkwardly from elven lips, but it was clear she had experience in it. "'Do not forget that my people and I are here by choice, not command, Warlord Mruuch. I will not stand to see these reinforcements turned away by those gizzard sacs at the gates.'"

A low growl, with a seething undertone was the reply, but the emotion was completely taken away from Genveera's monotone: "'The long ears are given permission. The human is not... And I don't care who gives your commands, rat-skin; in my village, you will obey me or you will lose your head.'"

The elf's expression fell flat, and the song of her words came smeared with rime. "'Do you not remember the fate of the last green-blood who threatened me so, Warlord? Half of him ended up in Orgrimmar... the other half is still lost in the Nether.'"

Thomas was growing weary of watching the spectacle, but he knew of no ways to interrupt without drawing blades.

"'I will watch my beloved Orgrimmar burn to the ground a second time before letting a human inside Stonard, you portal-bitch,'" Genveera translated.

The words gave Thomas a new idea, even more risky than the last, and he took it as his cue. Stepping forward, between the warlord and the Portal Master, he addressed the elf by asking in Thalassian, _"You have the reagents to open a portal?"_ At the interruption, the orc roared furiously, commanding his guards to take action, but Thomas gave them no regard. He hoped his calm would hold back the rangers from action.

Ysanna's eyes widened when she realized what tongue he just spoke, and then she stared over his shoulder, expression changing to urgency. In a blink of motion, Thomas spun and disarmed the three striking orcs. He still had the bursting energy to lurched forward and grab Warlord Mruuch, grappling him down into the muddy soil with his own axe poised at his throat.

A low hiss touched his ears, and Thomas replaced the hand that held Mruuch's arm pinned with his knee. He quickly looked up and caught the first long arrow in his gloved hand. Throwing it into his quiver, he caught and put away the second in a similarly quick motion, then snatched a thrown spear and planted its tip into the ground.

"_Shadow!"_ someone shouted behind him, but Thomas ordered them back, yelling, _"Leave me!"_

The warlord heaved up with his brutish strength, staggering Thomas. Soundlessly, Thomas repositioned his grip on the orc's massive shoulders, then stepped to the side and threw him over his back to slam Mruuch into the ground again. A kick against the orc's breastplate sent Thomas into a handstand over a swinging axe, planted against the stunned warlord's chest, and Thomas dipped into a quick twirl to to kick a striking orc back a step. His body's groan at the acrobatics reminded Thomas he'd been neglecting the field in recent weeks.

Thomas disappeared into the shadows, vanishing from his handstand, and he reappeared behind the nearest orc guard. A solid blow at the back of the helm made a loud gong and sapped the orc, and Thomas pushed him so he fell lifelessly on Mruuch. The warlord grunted, finally coming to his senses. Thomas added two more thick, orcish arrows to his quiver, then took the next spear and planted it against Mruuch's throat, shouting, "Stop or he dies!"

Ysanna translated, repeating it in orcish, but Thomas knew these grunts knew Common even if they chose not to speak it. After the Second War, nearly every orc on Azeroth understood the language, and even many on Outland. The fourteen standing guards moved restlessly, their agitation obvious, and several roared viciously, beating their chests with fist or their weapons against the ground, but they stopped trying to strike out against him.

As the noise began to settle, Thomas looked back to the elf. He noticed his rangers had their bows drawn and arrows nocked, but their holds were light and non-threatening. He said, _"Forgive the interruption, but this is more important than housing rights. We could desperately use a few mage portals to save us time, but neither my magisters nor the skeleton crews in Outland that we encountered have the reagents we need."_

"_Who... are you, human?"_ she asked hesitantly. _"Outland, your presence... you are the ones Prince Kael'thas marched through the Dark Portal with, aren't you? The traitors?"_

"_We are the Exilee,"_ Thomas told her, for the first time throwing his own lots in the name. _"The exiles of our people, exiles from our homeworld, _and we return now as a resistance force against whatever threatens us now." He said the last as a barb against the orc warlord.

"A little late with your resistance, human," Mruuch grumbled from his position. He spat on Thomas. "Phaw! All the kingdoms of this world have burned to the ground, the Warchief and your _king_ with it! All that is left for us is survival, and you humans brew trouble and disaster wherever you go. It would not surprise me if you humans are the ones who opened the Gates of Hell upon the world."

Thomas' frown was deep. "What of Dalaran or Teldrassil? Of the tauren Thunder Bluff? Those places naturally fortified against external threats, meant to withstand sieges for years without falling?"

"Let me up, you pink-skinned filth!" Mruuch roared, and his guards snarled with him.

Thomas stopped leaning against the unconscious orc, standing again with the spear and even withdrawing the first spear to carry one in each hand. Angrily, Mruuch rolled off the defender and stood, but even as he searched for his weapon, the spear touched his throat again. His eyes narrowed upon Thomas, leaving the matter alone.

"Dalaran fell from the sky, towers crushed like Archimonde had done years prior," Ysanna told him, softly.

Mruuch nodded curtly, lips still curled. "My scryers showed me the elven tree-city in flames, already crumbling as it fell into the waters. Thunder Bluff was empty when we scanned the plateaus. No fires, no blood, no tauren. Their chieftain cannot be spotted, and hope begins to fail."

"And who are we fighting? Where do the battles take place, and who is left?" Thomas asked, insistent. Like a ranger, he had lived isolated in wild forests much of his life, and once grown and trained, he lived deep in enemy territory on Outland for the last few years. He was not worried by the circumstances of the world, without capital cities.

"Daemons," the elf nearly whispered, to be overridden by the orc: "Daemons, human, and not those Nether-playthings that warlocks prance about. The daemons that bathe in the fires of Hell, twisted into monstrosities beyond mortal imagining. As for battles! Phaw! Each night is a battle! If you live and breathe, you become the battle, fighting to see the sun rise in the next morning, if it does at all! There is no resistance. So far as I am concerned, there is no one left outside my city walls. That is as far as I can afford to be concerned."

"So you will wait to die?"

Mruuch's eyes flashed in rage, and he stepped forward, allowing the tip to prick his throat. "Do you assume I am a coward? You have not fought them! I have, and I lost fifty of my finest to one! One!" He slapped away the spear, stepping closer and now towering over Thomas. "And there is more than my own life to consider, a concept I don't expect you humans to ever understand!"

Thomas stayed his weapons, pensive, but he noticed movement around him. There was Genveera and Velanee, both with their bows trained upon the orc's chest at point-blank range. "Do not presume to know this man or what he's done to ensure the safety of everyone under him," Velanee remarked coldly. On his other side, Genveera hissed something in harsh orcish, molding the sounds of her elven song unnaturally.

"Phaw!" Mruuch spat, blatantly ignoring the threat to stare down Thomas.

Thomas shook his head, stepping away to think. Idly, he tossed both spears up to the wall again, sticking them to a torch post beside their troll thrower. Turning back, he said to the elf, "I cannot hide behind walls. I must continue, to Elwynn and then to the source of these daemons. May we purchase your reagents? We will depart immediately, for the benefit of the warlord."

The elf looked to Mruuch, then back to Thomas. She told him, _"One does not reach my experience without mastering the art of portals without physical reagents. Warlord Mruuch will not respond well to this, but may I, and the others inside who wish it, accompany you on your journey? I offer you my skills as compensation."_

The warlord's narrow-eyed gaze switched to her, recognizing that she was speaking Thalassian, clearly to hide her words from him. Thomas gave a single nod. _"Like the others, I cannot promise your safety, but we would be grateful for your services."_ Ysanna first blinked, then her cheeks tinged with a small blush.

Velanee swiftly elbowed Thomas in the side, whispering, _"That form of 'service' is sexual favors. You mean 'service.'"_

Thomas turned sheepish, his lips tugging up the side in an embarrassed smile, and he bowed to Ysanna. _"A thousand pardons, lady. I should have know better than to use a new word so flippantly."_ Though his eyes did not stray, his perception fell upon Genveera, watching for any signs of nervousness. It was "Snow" that had taught him, after all.

"_Forgiven,"_ Ysanna said lightly, still blushing. _"It is impressive enough your clear mastery of Thalassian otherwise. Allow me a short while to speak to the other children of the blood, and then we will depart. We must do so quickly, for night has nearly finished falling."_

Thomas bowed his head, and she turned to make her way back inside the village. Mruuch watched her go, suspicious, and looked at Thomas with a displeased expression. "Who are you, human, to win the allegiance of your enemies so quickly?"

"I am Ranger-General Thomas of the Exilee," he answered simply. After a moment's pause, he added, "Though the hostilities between our races haven't fallen, Warlord, I wish you luck in the coming days. You are truly worthy of leading your people."

"Phaw," Mruuch grumbled, unsure of what to say.

Dusk was in its final moments when Ysanna returned, heading half a score of other blood elves. Mruuch realized what her intent was then, uttering a throaty growl, but the Portal Master interrupted him with: "If your people were nearing extinction, Warlord, and you found an army of orcs larger than you thought remained total, would you not march too?"

He looked away, spitting on the mud, and barked, "I see half of your pink-skins had sense enough to remain. Die alone, traitors. Back inside the walls!" He repeated the command in orcish, stomping towards the gates with his guards.

Ignoring him now, Ysanna approached Thomas and said, _"The daemons come every night, my lord. We should depart immediately; Lorrin and I will establish the portals whenever you are ready."_

"_Are there scryers among you?"_ Thomas asked, to which three of the blood elves saluted and nodded. _"Scan the area around Stormwind's Mage Tower for threats waiting. Jerath, Genveera, watch with me – see for enemies in hiding."_

A blond man uttered a phrase of magic and cast his hand forward. Water spilled out in a calm tide, only to halt still in the air and form a smooth, levitating pool. The three scryers, two men and a woman, chanted the next spell, and at the resolution, the pool shifted its reflection of the violet-black sky to a view of a different land still with the purples and indigo of sunset.

The land was of black soil with charred, square-bricked ruins around them. The vision panned in a clockwise motion from a vantage of perhaps thirty feet. It started at what Thomas felt was the west, giving view of a cliff with short ruins at the edge and the massive sea lingering beyond. The sun hovered a few marks above the water line, and its reflection left gold and orange sparkles in a broad path all the way to the cliff edge. Then the vision turned towards the north, to more broken land and black soil, but with one section of a wall still wholesome, if crumbling.

On instinct, Thomas felt that if this vision was where he thought it was, at Mage Quarter, then to the east would be the true heart of his home city. Stormwind, home to a million humans, yet when the slow pan reached the angle... all he saw was destruction. The keep was a mountain of black rubble, the cathedral's lot now completely empty with only a patch of light-brown dirt. All the homes, shops, buildings that were once filled with human life... now ash.

For the first time, Thomas was able to witness the true horror of the present. The butchered humans outside the Dark Portal appeared like an odd battle, but this was the complete raping of Stormwind, his home and the grandest and most powerful symbol of the resilience of his race. King Varian, perhaps one of the finest gladiators in the world, murdered. SI:7: his guild, full of friends, companions, and mentors – no more than a black-flecked mound of timber-ash. Their massive entrance gates of stone had crumbled, and though distant, the vantage point showed the bridge had collapsed as well.

More than just words now, the humans were in a desperate plight.

"_Shadow,"_ Genveera addressed softly. Thomas couldn't even find the attention to shake his head, to dismiss her concern. Whomever had done this hadn't just razed the city to the ground, they took the time and effort to make sure every last building, monument, and structure had fallen. Nothing remained that could even remind someone of the former capital city.

It took a full revolving of the vision before Thomas began to actually search. _"Watch hard. There are not many places for something to hide here."_

In the end, the three of them saw nothing, and Thomas thanked the scryers. Ysanna told him, _"Though the tower has fallen, the lay-line that it resided upon remains. We can still take you there, if you wish it."_

"_If you'd please,"_ Thomas told her, dispassionate. _"Our objective resides within the forest outside the c... outside the ruins."_

Ysanna nodded, and she turned to a male elf to discuss their task. As they did, Genveera mentioned, _"Shadow, you are certain this friend remains? That he did not die in the catastrophic ruin here?"_

"_I'm sure,"_ Thomas told her immediately.

"_...More than anyone, we blood elves understand what you are going through now. In a similar way, we have lost everything, including our home and so, so many of our people. I know how dearly you must be clinging to hopes, but will you risk our lives to-"_

"I am certain, Swan," Thomas interrupted again, coldly. Raeloth and Jerath looked to him, without expression, and Thomas bit his tongue. After a moment's pause, he returned to Thalassian in saying, _"I am certain because I know this man. He would not die in the defense of Stormwind. He will wage his war in the forest and seek vengeance on any_ "daemon"_ that dares enter it."_

They said nothing to oppose his reasoning, keeping their thoughts to themselves if they disagreed. However, Raeloth, with a hand on his hilt in a casual stance, speculated, _"He must mean much to you, this man."_

Thomas remained quiet, watching the two Portal Masters began to conjure the portals. After a lengthy pause, he finally conceded, _"He is the closest thing I have to family."_

The portals shimmered into exist, two wide things touching the ground for the army to quickly move through. Without waiting, Thomas leaped through one, drawing his bow and falling into the shadows. He spared no more thoughts on his kind or their fate; this was only a battleground now... No more thoughts at least until he physically arrived at the destruction.

The first difference Thomas noticed on the other side was the feel of the air, and then the brighter color. It went from warm with sticky humidity to the coolness of the ocean breeze. The smells were of salty winds and aged smoke. The utter silence was its own striking trait, until the next elves began to follow him through. By step alone, he knew it to be Genveera and Raeloth, then a pregnant absence of sound following could only be Jerath.

Thomas ignored them, making his way forward, into the city of his childhood. He was reminded vaguely of the old command to never question or even talk to him, as he ferried the blood elves through Outland, and he childishly wished he could enforce it now. He just wished to be alone with his thoughts.

He looked to the ruins of SI:7's headquarters, considering sprinkling dust over it in memory, but he abstained. The dead couldn't be put to rest now. There was no dead to put to rest in sight. The realization struck a thought in him, and Thomas took in a breath before searching to the best of his eyes' ability to find even a single corpse – be it charred bones or a drop of blood. He found nothing.

There was a mystery to this new enemy, he found. Their ways were peculiar, unseen from any enemies before hand. The human lord, on the retreat with his militia, had told him that the enemy would leave out corpses to lure in others for an ambush. Then at the killing fields, not a single trace of an enemy could be found – not even a drop of foreign blood. Sure, the slaughtered could have merely let themselves die, without a defense, or perhaps more likely the enemy had made all traces vanish as carefully as they could.

Such seemed to be the case of Stormwind. If a team of rangers or rogues were trying to be subtle, they would assassinate their targets without a single mark of presence left behind. Looking at this city, however, it was obvious the enemy was not trying to be subtle – so what did they do with the hundreds of thousands that were surely slaughtered? Eat them? Were not even the blackened bones of those caught in fires too repulsive to gulp down?

He compared his two personal encounters, this city and the butchery outside the Dark Portal. Another connection between them was the complete destruction of everything. Every last building or monument had been torn and broken down into parts; outside the crater, every last body had been diced into chunks, even if the body had died from less obvious causes beforehand. Was it to hit the morale of the enemies? To instill inside a deep fear? Or was it a method of thoroughness?

So many questions, yet no answers. He recalled his one sighting of one of the enemies: what appeared to have been a corrupted variant of a mage-eater. Tentacles, extra limbs, black skin... and that strange property that had his eyes sliding off the creature's form. Surely an illusion or enchantment, for there was no other reason that his eyes, trained supernaturally past normal human perception, could not see it when in plain sight.

He blew out a sigh, thinking of the last time he encountered something so odd. The mysteries of the Felbood elves, he related this to, where the tracks had been lopsided and misshapen for the elven footprints. Then the discovery of glowing felblood, yet no presence of any demons at a battle ground, and feathers that had birthed a fear of a new breed of winged demons. It had been a tense period, where their riders scanned the skies for new enemies, all the while fearing that an entire army had been hidden under their noses, waiting to strike.

There had been a strong relief (and disgust) with the realization of the new breed of corrupted elves, but Thomas did not think there would be any relief now when this enemy was finally discovered in full. He knew his mentor would have the answers he sought. It had been many years since they last met, but he hoped the desperate hope that he still lived.

The officers and Raeloth approached Thomas now, though they kept their distance until Thomas gave them attention. Raeloth and Genveera had the most experience and best idea of how to guide this army, though the latter was much like Thomas in that she had only handled small, independent teams of rangers, not full armies.

"_We will be exposed here on this flat land, but we would be able to better see any enemies coming. Though we are better suited for the forest, our people are at greater risk from any lurking threats,"_ Genveera summarized, outlining their two options for breaking camp that night.

Thomas had already considered the question. _"If my suspicions are correct, the forest will be the safest place in the entire kingdom. If I am wrong, I will take full responsibility for the decision: I will stand guard tonight and handle any threat myself."_

"_Be realistic, Ranger-General; you don't yet know that you even can handle one yourself,"_ Raeloth reminded sternly. _"And we are all exhausted from the march, you more so with your insistence in taking long watches each night."_

His accusations were true. Thomas couldn't count on one hand how many cups of thistle tea he had brewed to keep his energy up in the last few days. However, Thomas wouldn't be dead on his feet due to one more night, no matter Raeloth's concerns. Just as he was about to insist, Genveera threw her support with Raeloth:

"_You are our finest warrior, Shadow. I think we would all appreciate marching into that forest tomorrow with you fully rested and able to handle any threat at your best. There would be no more risk in having us camp at the ruins of Stormwind's harbor and cycling the rangers and scouts atop to watch for any approaching foes, while you sleep soundly. If a confrontation must happen, we can wake you in time to address it."_

Thomas considered the proposal. He knew that if a daemon were to approach, they were not equipped or prepared to take it down themselves and would actually wake him. They would not die to let him sleep longer, at least. With a cup of thistle tea at his bedside, he'd be in fighting shape in a matter of seconds.

"_You are right,"_ he admitted. _"We will camp at the harbor and enter the forest tomorrow. Everyone could use the rest. I want a bare-bones watch, but with at least one ranger with them at all times. I am to be wakened at the first hint of trouble, understood?"_

The two saluted, prompting the other officers who were just arriving to do the same. Thomas noticed the head craftsman, Donvorei, among them, and he asked, _"Commander, whom did you anoint to oversee the logistical needs of the army?"_

Raeloth gestured towards an Arch-Mage, garbed in violet and indigo robes and crowned with lavender crystals. It was a woman, with long, straight hair the color of charcoal and tanned skin. She lifted her chin when she noticed the attention. _"Captain Maloree, sir. Since the Cenarion Refuge, she had been charged with overseeing food portioning, distribution of medical supplies, waste disposal, and so on. I would say her hard work has been essential to the improved conditions of our army."_

"_Such praise,"_ Thomas noticed aloud, addressing Maloree now. _"You have been working Donvorei and the engineers, I assume?"_

The Arch-Mage curtsied, and her reply was with a soft, formal voice, _"You assume correctly, my lord. I will take no credit that does not include his name."_

Thomas had the fayest feeling of stepping into a royal courtroom, with politics, formalities, and spinning manipulations. Awful memories, those. He shook off the thought. _"The work of many all deserve much praise for the recent weeks, but the sun will surely finish setting before we can finish singing our thanks. Let us focus on the present. The Exilee has the finest warriors a commander can ask for, with centuries of training shaping rangers, magisters, swordsmen, assassins, and even warlocks into the legends the world knows of them. But no amount of skill or training can make up for power, and in the coming days I believe that is something we will need most."_

"_My lord commands much power, reminiscent of the Windrunner sisters and the late Prince. What more could we offer?"_

"_With as much attention and resources as you can spare, I want Donvorei and his engineers to begin construction of manless ballista and the most powerful arcane guardians we can get our hands on. If our enemies are as powerful and deadly as rumor describes, I want them chewing through steel and magic before touching elvish blood."_

Donvorei's eyes glowed with pleasure, listening in to his latest orders. _"I was wondering when this order would come, once you commanded the army to prepare for war. I've already composed a list of the supplies I'll need. The lumber will be easy to come by in the forest, but I'll need stone, metal, and most difficult will be capacitors, cell-cores, and batteries for the golems. To reach the power that you want, we'll need fel-iron or titanium just for the frames, and dark ores like cobalt for the wiring."_

Thomas nodded, then swept his hand towards the area behind him. _"Look around you, good craftsman. These ruins are a whole capital city, un-looted. Tomorrow at sun up, Captain Maloree will give you men, and you may take all that you need and more from the city. Ensure that you give thanks to the dead as you do."_

The elf turned respectfully solemn at the reminder, and he announced his acceptance: _"I suppose we'll start with picks and shovels tonight. We'll sing together a few more carts for materials from the northern forest too."_

As they began to turn towards the harbor, Thomas added to Maloree when Donvorei wouldn't hear, _"High standards on everything they produce, Captain. Mobility and resilience are crucial, along with the penetrating power of the ballista."_

"_Of course, my lord,"_ she acknowledged.

XxX

The only light in the tent was a single candle, residing a mere foot from his pillow with his still-steaming cup of tea. Night had fallen well over an hour ago, and the sounds within the camp were dwindling to silence. Thomas found he couldn't sleep, plagued with thoughts of Stormwind, with memories of the people he knew and the places he'd been. As an orphan, he had no family, yet his thoughts turned towards his high elven friend again and again, wondering if he was even alive.

Sorrow held a constant presence in his gut, for all his outward indifference. Thomas was, after all, only human.

At the sound of his tent flap opening and closing, he sighed, looking over from were he sat on his bedroll. "Why have you returned, Snow?"

The mana-addicted eyes glowed bright and fresh now, with no illusion of being anything else. She stood in the usual glamor of white hair and different skin, dressed in the filmy gown – Thomas noticed it was a light color, though opaque to the point of giving hazy outlines beneath. She did not dim the light this time.

A red stone fell from her hands as she crept further inside. Thomas noticed, partially surprised, that it was a bloodgem, though no longer illuminated within. She had brought the object of her addiction to his very tent and expected to have him? Rolling her hand towards the stone, the elf slurred out her words in a smokey, sultry voice, _"That's the last of it. It's all tapped now."_

Gods, she was beautiful, but Thomas was in no mood for this. In a harder tone, he repeated, "Why have you returned, Snow?"

"_You know why,"_ she replied, with this elven song of lust. She fingered her collar, pulled the hem aside enough to give a glimpse of pale cleavage.

Thomas lost his glare and sighed again, unwilling to hold the look any longer. His attention fixed upon the cloth wall of his tent. "You know already that I will refuse you and that loathsome state from the bloodgem. What's more, I am trying my chances with Sarrine, even in this troubled time. I will not."

"_Yet this Sarrine is not here now, is she? She did not come to visit you in your tent this night, did she?"_ Snow questioned, with some emotion in her voice. It seemed a mix of mischief and insistence. _"We all understand what you are going through, having undergone the same after the Scourge attack and the destruction of the Sunwell. We know why you sit here awake still, why you will not blow out your last candle. We know the pain inside and the unrelenting thoughts, no matter how well you hide it._

"_Tonight, I am here to comfort you, Deliverer. If you will not have me, then do not have me, but I will not leave you alone tonight."_ Her conclusion led Thomas to frown, and he glanced over to see the one called Snow slip off her thonged sandals and join him on his bedroll, kneeling across from him. Her bright eyes fixed upon him when she settled.

As their stare held, Thomas listened to her breathing, the pattern, and noticed the rise and fall of her breasts from it. From the light within, he noticed the shape of her eyes, the color of green, and the size of her hands clenched on her lap. How much was enchantment, he wondered, the parts that differed from the Swan.

Finally, he stated quietly, "You are not Genveera... are you?" The question and suspicion had remained in his mind even after he had chased her out of his tent at the Cenarion Refuge. His suspicions had only been confirmed, slowly, when he noticed it was only him who behaved awkwardly with the lead ranger, when Genveera gave no sign of response from barbed comments. She had not questioned him about it, yet he often saw the thought lurking beneath the other addict's mind.

Snow paused at the question, then slowly shook her head. _"I do not know the name. You have caught me in that I am not who I appear to be, but perhaps Genveera is the one whom I have taken the identity of."_

Thomas continued staring, now with questions of this elf bubbling in his mind like a cauldron. He switched finally to Thalassian, _"Who are you, then, to not know the name of the one most commonly at my side?"_

A luscious smile. _"Perhaps I am the collective will of thanks for the Exilee."_

"_While I appreciate the symbol of the Exilee children of the blood being a bloodgem addict, I don't think that's quite it,"_ Thomas remarked, chuckling. Snow joined in with a soft, chiming laughter that tinkled like bells. She seemed visually pleased to make him laugh. He then noticed the squirm of her thighs, rubbing together, and remembered that she presently fought the bloodgem lust too. Her pupils remained large, ivory drops in the radiant emeralds.

Snow repositioned herself to be sitting beside him, shoulders touching, and she reached over him to seize his cup of tea. Thomas watched her as she took a whiff, then set it down again with a self-satisfied nod. _"Swiftthistle. You accuse me of my addictions, yet you too function on an artificial high."_

Thomas huffed. _"That keeps me alert, not pawing at someone to quench a fire in my loins."_

"_And yet it is well known to rapidly increase heart rate, and repeated exposure can lead to your heart exploding within your very chest. Which runs the greater risk?"_

"_Don't you dare try justifying yourself in this manner. It is obvious why I take the tea, and it is obvious why you saturate yourself in those opiates,"_ Thomas deflected sternly. Snow pouted, hugging her knees.

Running a hand through his hair, Thomas sighed, wondering why he was even letting her remain in his tent. Perhaps he really did appreciate the company, if not quite the whom. _"Who are you really? If you aren't a ranger, how do you move like us? You are an assassin, surely."_

Snow's smile was demure, and she shyly peered over at his eyes, resting her chin on her forearms. _"They are the skills of a courtesan that knows her field... and how to service."_

"_Score of trouble with that word today,"_ Thomas grunted.

"_Aha! You used it like the Common word?"_ Snow asked, giggling. _"How rich! I would have loved to have seen her face."_

Looking at the temptress, Thomas let the moment pass and said, _"You are no courtesan though, not with those calluses on your hands. Bow and hilt. Nimble, flexible, strong – agile, certainly. You touch shadows too. An assassin, you must be, yet not among those I spoke to. Perhaps one of Kael'thas' elite, laying low among the Exilee."_

A small smile through the speculation from her. When he finished Snow straightened and grabbed his shoulder, gently pulling him down to the bed. _"Let us talk intimately, and I will answer one question with all honesty."_

Lured in through curiosity, Thomas allowed it, laying with her face to face upon his pillow. Her small hand remained upon his shoulder, and her foot mingled with his. He noticed again the sweet aroma of Genveera's perfume, coming from her neck. Snow smiled at him, waiting for the question.

Thomas thought it over, knowing he had many he wanted to ask. A name? The identity among the camp? Her origins? The more he thought, though, the more he realized that the answer didn't actually matter to him. She was Snow, the woman who came to console him in the distress of witnessing his people nearly destroyed.

It did not help that that her firm nipples made visible impressions through her gown, or that he was beginning to notice the scent of her arousal. Her inviting, patient smile remained throughout the silence, until he stopped groping after his slipping thoughts, and she leaned in to kiss him. Thomas idly noticed the way the candle dimmed, sheathing them in the comforting dark, as he kissed her back.

Light, he was so exhausted, and he craved the relief and comfort. Thomas gave in to her advance, to her sweet presence and sultry words. Together they shimmied off her thin gown, then worked off the straps and buckles of his armor. He gave in to her fire and bloodgem lust, joining her in the euphoric state.

When it was finished and they lied together in a tangle of nude limbs, Thomas tiredly requested that she stayed the night. Snow promised she would, and with a spontaneous final kiss, Thomas held her slight body in his arms and slept.

XxX

"_Let us begin,"_ a voice said into the dark night. The group of them, twelve total, sat apart from the night's sentries. They did not rest as they were expected to, and the one on watch continued his work among them.

"_It feels wrong without the Swan here,"_ a woman argued softly, and after a moment of silence, a male's voice countered, _"She was not here the first time either."_

"_And yet she still remains his most trusted lieutenant,"_ another man remarked bitterly. _"Right now, she's likely stalking for some hooligan to take to bed, after gorging on her bloodgems."_

"_Silence,"_ a hard woman interjected. _"We are here to discuss the man called Thomas, who holds the fate of our lives and the lives of our people."_

"_I'll start then, just to get the ball rolling,"_ a man continued, his tone light. _"Frankly, I like him. He has the young passions of a human, yet the skills of one decades his senior. Some of his feats go beyond what a mortal should be able to do without mana. Such is a man I believe can take us far."_

"_He is reckless,"_ the same woman was quick to counter. _"He continues to think lines of thought as if he were still alone. He risks himself, and us, in decisions that rely on his own combat prowess. Take for example today's diplomacy with the warlord – he knew he was provoking the warlord into aggression, and he considered that merely a passing side-effect of acquiring his portals here. Did he even consider if the men on the gates began to send their arrows into the army?"_

"_Yes, he did,"_ another woman considered, her song of Thalassian thoughtful. _"That is the way he always thinks, with our safety first. He can jump through shadows, with physical objects no bar. One step to a guard on the wall and he'd have them all dead before the first arrow hit the ground. That boast had not been a bluff."_

"_And if he had lost?"_ the hard woman insisted. _"If he had been struck wounded or mortally? What defense do we have against these daemons? Who leads us then, and how will they manage to do so without the skills of Thomas? He does not trust us enough to sleep soundly himself. He has not yet used all the tools beneath him as our Ranger-General. Can anyone disagree that Thomas remains better suited as a captain of the rangers than the Ranger-General of the Exilee?"_

A heavy silence followed as no one opposed her claim. It was interrupted only be a soft voice, _"I disagree."_ Attention set upon the speaker, including the puzzled frown of the one who had posed the question. The speaker was asked to explain herself. _"Much of the Shadow's recklessness was birthed in his promise to us, that not a single elf would lose his or her life during the march back home. He remained overly paranoid, watching every threat nearby both day and night, and as he said, he worked with only rangers because he preferred them. He wanted the whole to look to the Commander. Now that we are truly his, I feel he is becoming more cautious of himself and his significance among us. You all heard him say to the Commander that he will regard the army as a whole now."_

The most skeptical of them, the redhead, nodded at the reasoning. _"Then we still have conviction to our cause. We still hope. What do the rest of you say? Shall we continue on as we do? Will you continue to devote your lives to the defense and protection of the human Thomas, even though he has all the negotiation and political skill of an ogre? You will lay down your life if it means the preservation of his?"_

Mumbled agreements, some still reluctant, until a clear voice announced, _"I believe in our deliverer, but he needs guidance. He has grown and lived as an isolated soldier, as an adventurer and hired blade. His heart is in the right place though. The Swan and the Commander both keep his tendencies in check, when they can, but it appears as though they are the only voices of wisdom confident enough to rebuke him."_

"_What we need is someone well versed politics to stand with him and give council. Someone from the higher class or nobility. I do not know where we can find such in an army of soldiers."_

"_Genveera comes close, but none of us have had true experience in leading, apart from Raeloth, who was just a captain. Duskfury... why does that name ring bells, somewhere deep in our history? Before the Scourge claimed our home?"_

"_Leave her kin name alone. In recent years, second names have changed again and again, with the changing of states. Let us focus. For now, there is no quick solution, so we must delay until one arrives. Perhaps this friend of Thomas' actually lives still, and he might be exactly the voice we need. Even in these times of great peril, we must remain vigilant and we must place the preservation of Thomas as our greatest concern. Who will swear to this?"_

"_I will swear to this."_

"_I will swear to this."_

"_I will swear to this!"_

A figure nodded, accepting the unanimous agreement between them all. _"Then we are sworn into our service. From the ashes before you, draw your weapon. Now stand – rise an Ashblade, and let the night be witness to our pact!"_

* * *

AN: Expect another chapter tomorrow. I've already given it my usual once-over for editing, so with a small fix to some of the combat, I should have it good to go.


	11. Chapter 9: Valhalas

**This is the first of the many chapters I updated today. If you have read yesterdays "A Changed World" already, then carry on. If not, you should start with that.**

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Chapter 9

_Valhalas_

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X Underdog X

Once, Freydis had told him that the vrykul were not always so in their regard to combat. Certainly, it was a place of pride, of honor and respect, but it had been different, once. Defeat in combat had not been regarded with such disdain. In fact, it was a measure of greatness to fall upon the blades of a powerful enemy after years of success in combat. It was said one would carry the glory of their life into the afterlife, and so they were burned on the funeral pyres with the skulls and trophies of their enemies, and their slaves would be thrown into the flames to continue their service beyond, and often, the wives would walk in on their own volition, if their husband was so great.

Gardjon had been given such a burial. Freydis seemed happy as she explained that without the Death God to urge them to "Ascension," the vrykul were slowly beginning to shift back to their own ways.

The Valhalas battle pit was also a place of much history to the vrykul. Over the years, its purpose had shifted to suit their needs, but the fact always remained constant: it was the highest honor in vrykul society to prove yourself worthy of battle there, and to do so delivered you into the ranks of the Ymirjar. The Ymirjar: the clan of Champions, composed of members from all clans. They had no leader, no structure of government, but should King of the Vrykul blow the horn atop Balargarde Fortress, they would rally to his cry.

The Lich King had easily taken advantage of this culture. After establishing himself as a god to the vrykul, he made it clear that only those worthy of combat in Valhalas had the honor of serving within his elite force. The current Ymirjar had been slain and raised as death knights in the take over. Geirrvif and Gjonner, whom had overseen the battle pit for centuries, found similar fates, raised val'kyr and death knight respectively. At the time, most of them had desired the fate.

Once, according to Freydis, death at Valhalas had been worthy of praise and glory. The contradiction of the vargul had not been an issue, for there were no vargul. If Geirrvif called the name of a warrior to compete in Valhalas, then already he had reached a point in life of outstanding glory and ability. It was a battle pit for champions, and many were glad to finally fall fighting within. To be victorious, to prove oneself worthy of combat there, only demonstrated how truly great that warrior was, and he or she was allowed entrance to Ymirheim.

Ymirheim, the realm of Champions. In the old ways, the vrykul believed that in death, the greatest warriors were taken to such a realm, where the mead flowed freely and they could combat the best without end or death. The women were many, serving the champions as they pleased. Freydis explained that Ymirheim is the attempt to recreate such a place on Azeroth, for there was nothing left to truly contest them in life.

And the small races had attempted to destroy that city and were confused as to why they were only slaughtered in _droves_.

Light, Drekthac found it all too good to be true. It was the most beautiful story a true warrior, a true child of war, could ever hear, and to know that it was _real_, and that even he, Baelin Drekthac, could be given a chance to enter this fabled city and join his fellow brothers and sisters of combat... Dwelling too long on the subject, this paradise, would make him almost emotional, so he kept it firmly locked out until he was already allowed inside.

For now, Drekthac had to focus on the present, on Valhalas itself and proving himself worthy. The vrykul, whether they hated or loved him, accepted him as one of their own. He was of the Jotunheim clan. Abruptly, he recalled Thane Byjron the Thirster and his blight upon this tournament. True, if a warrior was not great enough to overcome the thane, then he was not worthy of being called Ymirjar, but that man shat on everything being a warrior meant, shat on honor, glory, death, combat, and Ymirjar. The rage flowed thick through Drekthac's blood.

The freezing air of Northrend bit against Drekthac's face as he paced back and forth beside Freydis, a few dozen yards south of the ring he was to fight within. Every day that he entered the Underhalls, he stood before that pit which resided below its mouth, stared down at the countless remains of the defeated, and imagined himself fighting there. He knew its every nook and cranny, down to the smell of tangy bone mixed with the scent-numbing ice of the air.

He took a deep, frosty breath and exhaled before asking, "Do you know how many trials I will face?"

Freydis beside him wore her usual winged breastplate and slender cloth garments. She remained grounded for the moment with her wings tucked in, and her polearm was impaled into the ice before her, waiting. To the question, she said, "Three challenges are already arranged for you. Following that, it is known that Thane Byjron will challenge you for the right to be called Ymirjar, and then if another wishes to contest your right, he or she is allowed. So you will face four or five trials."

Drekthac himself wore his full suit of plated armor. He wasn't one for grandiose color and decorations, but he left the shoulders thick and spiked, and his helmet, tucked under his arm, was pronged with two large horns, and their eye holes were narrow to prevent accurate arrows from reaching their mark.

Around them churned the massive crowds of people that Valhalas was attracting, moving towards the stands around the pit. They were animated and excited, nearly everyone, and many gave him deliberate glances in passing. If he had thought his blood match with Gardjon had gathered a large following, this put it to shame. Not a single villager would miss a Valhalas battle if they could help it. Even those from other villages, the Njorndar, the Mjordin, the southern clans of Dragonflayer and Winterskorn, had come, as had the armored behemoths from Ymirheim themselves, to watch he who sought to join them. Drekthac did not flinch under their hard glares, but their silence, neither jeering nor honoring, intrigued him. Even the vargul, from their halls of undeath in the Underhalls, crawled up to the surface and claimed a whole bluff to watch his battles here. Drekthac was told this was the first time the vargul had ever left their exiled homes.

While watching, they overheard the excited conversation between two warriors as they passed. Drekthac quickly noticed the red-stained bandaged stump at one's arm. "The look on your face as it bit your hand clean off! Like a woman receiving her first heart, still dripping!"

Stumpy growled, gesturing with the limb at his companion. "Little demon was the spawn of Hela! Quick as a snake, and blood like molten steel."

"It was a knee-biter, you simpering oaf!" They continued on, laughing and jesting.

Drekthac had a smile, acknowledging, _Only the vrykul..._

"I heard you haven't even taken a woman since your victory night over Gardjon. I am impressed by your dedication," Freydis mentioned. Drekthac only shrugged, resuming his pacing.

He was in full armor once again, after so long of the Underhalls. He had spent the last two weeks training to get used to the weight yet again, working at mobility and endurance until his boots sloshed with sweat and his feet blistered, until even his tendons and legiments groaned at the strain. He had reached his limits in strength training, at least as close as a man could get without devoting his every day to the practice, but he relished a return to the complex lifting regimen he had once followed.

Train big, eat big, sleep big. The big three. The previous four days he had rested, performing only cooldown exercises to keep his muscles from cramping up as they recovered, and even the butcher had been impressed over his appetite. Freydis noticed he had gained some weight; Drekthac had too. Not much muscle, not in that time or this near his human limits, but every bit of extra fat would keep him alive longer through wounds, so long as he could support the weight. He could.

He considered his position again. While his body may have hit the limits of human strength, his armor and trinkets took him well past it. That, and the supernatural power that came with the rage of a warrior's spirit. Much like how Freydis' polearm had given him the strength to preserve at the end of Gardjon's fight, every bit he wore now would do the same. Blows would do him less harm, cuts would not slice as deep nor bleed as much, and best of all, if Gardjon were to try swinging that monstrous axe at him again, he was easily strong enough to stop it with one hand.

His opponents would be no different.

This far north, the sun never truly reached a zenith, high in the sky – it merely hovered a distance over the horizon and lofted from end to end at that height. However, it was reaching it's highest point when finally a deep, throaty horn blared from the Valhalas arena. The drums began to slam and pound, and with the noise, the crowds roared and hollered their loudest cheers.

Drekthac's free hand came to the hilt of one of his two monstrous swords strapped to his back. He had debated switching one out for Gardjon's axe – all of the man's possessions were his, should he claim them – yet he found those much too awkward in shape and force. In truth, he trusted the polearm and spears the most as weapons, for they had the perfect mix of piercing force, distance, and plenty of blunt length at no weight disadvantage, but frankly, polearms were simply not manly enough for him.

Thus, he carried two swords, six feet in length, ten inches of steel wide, an inch and half thick, and roughly fifty pounds perceived each, after the minor weight reducing enchantment. It took the grip of a titan to carry the monsters in battle, but Drekthac knew he was the baddest fucker around when he did.

"It's time," Freydis mentioned, ripping free her polearm from the snow, and they began to walk down the slope into the arena.

Into Valhalas they descended, to the roaring cheer and jeer of some many vrykul. The all-female Hyldnir held a notable section, mocking him for his size and gender, and it seemed those of the Underhalls sort also claimed a stand, chanting his title.

Drekthac studied the crowds, for he knew that by the end of this day, he would never live among them again. Either he would die here, or he would win and enter Ymirheim. His time with the Jotunheim vrykul was over.

In the center, waiting for them, was another val'kyr. A woman of legends and song, Geirrvif, of the white wing. On the way, Drekthac glanced to his right, to the main overseeing ledge, and he saw the hulking monster Gjonner the Merciless. The sponsor of the tournament. Once a Ymirjar – one of the Lich King's personal champions – then turned death knight, gifted with abilities and ungodly power, to determine whom would join the Ymirjar and serve the Lich King following. No one, not even the Overthane, could command Gjonner to act, unless the Horn of Balargarde was blown.

Drekthac hoped to one day cross blades with the man. He felt only through Gjonner's blade could he find his own honorable death in battle, worthy of Drekthac's skill.

The final few spans, Freydis did not continue with him. Drekthac turned his head, a frown on his thick lips and question in his dark eyes. His val'kyr friend told him, "Fight with my blessing, Dragon, and take with you my spirit. Bring honor and glory to us both." She touched Drekthac's shoulder, and a blue light spiraled from her touch over his whole form. Drekthac felt a new fire churning in his blood, something mixed with pain and euphoria, like touch of a shadow-healing. With a wordless nod to him, Freydis turned and began to fly out of the ring.

Drekthac pulled his helmet from under his arm and slid it over his head. With an arcane snap, the completed enchantment of his armor set formed over him as he did the strap to hold it in place. A very special enchantment, that one. He faced Geirrvif again, visually similar to Freydis down to her winged breastplate, and hailed her.

"So you finally answer the summons of Valhalas, Baelin Drekthac the Dragon. You have garnered much honor in your time among us. As you know, Valhalas knows no race, no gender, and can embody the spirit of up to five warriors. You are a renowned warrior, but here in Valhalas I offer you different sport. You choose to fight for ascendance alone?" Geirrvif began, her voice soft and measured for a former vrykul.

Drekthac knew better than to nod with a helmet on. "Indeed. I will ascend through my own strength."

"We shall see if you are worthy. If you believe yourself ready to begin then I have just the match for you to cut your teeth on.

A group of outsiders thought themselves prepared for the rigors of Valhalas. They had much hubris, but in the end they fell like all of the others. If you think yourself so different – if you think that you have the skill and experience to fight here amongst such storied warriors – then please accept the challenge."

The crowds were deathly silent now, straining to listen in to their conversations. Drekthac drew his two massive swords and held them without strain, then announced, "I accept!"

The crowds roared their approval, starting up the war drums once again, yet still Geirrvif's soft voice could be heard unabated, "Valhalas is yours to win or die in, Dragon. But whatever you do, stay within the bounds of the arena. To flee is to lose and be dishonored."

Swooping upwards, the val'kyr's voice changed pitch to a vrykul roar, demonstrating the fire and passion they all possessed, and she declared, "Drekthac the Dragon has chosen to accept honorable combat within the sacred confines of Valhalas! There can only be one outcome to such a battle: death for one side or the other! Let the Dragon prove himself upon the bones of these outsiders who have fallen before!"

She cast her hand forward, releasing thin streams of dark magic into the soil. A few seconds later, Drekthac watched as hands ripped free and began pulling bodies upward, rising from the bones of the defeated. Five fallen heroes, small raced, carrying with them their weapons.

It was a pathetic first trial, but meant to clear the fodder before the true rounds. Drekthac found a fellow warrior by class, and he matched blades with him before spilling his bones back into the icy graveyard. Turning, he deflected an arrow with a sword flat, then leapt over and sundered the rotting elf back into the grave with a scissoring strike. Throwing one sword ended the flimsy mage, and the last two were as easily demolished.

Nearly insulting, to send such warriors against one called to Valhalas.

The crowds were roaring at the show, as Drekthac walked over to the fallen mage and pried his gold-hilted sword free. He heard from above, Geirrvif shouting, "The Dragon has defeated the fallen heroes of Valhalas battles past! This is only a beginning, but it will suffice!"

Swords sheathed again, Drekthac walked towards the front edge of the pit and faced Gjonner the Merciless. The hulking warrior's expression was masked by his helmet, but Drekthac could hear the vrykul fury beneath his metallic voice as he boomed, "We shall see, human. We shall see if you have what it takes to fight here. The game has changed since the days of the Scourge."

It had, Drekthac agreed. To a better time, he wished he could say, where once gain Ymirheim was the home of champions and not solely housing for Scourge elite. But also, monsters like Bryjon had awakened from the Long Sleep, plaguing upon these hollowed grounds.

Turning, Drekthac marched through the throbbing cheer of the crowd, back to Geirrvif. The val'kyr nodded to him, seeing him ready to continue. "From all over the world, beings aspire to prove themselves within Valhalas. Some come from other worlds. What you face now is a traveler, one who makes his way from arena to arena, seeking to find one who can prove his greater. Should he win here, he will take your place as the combatant of Valhalas. Do you accept his challenge now?"

Whomever was undergoing the trials of Valhalas was allowed a time of rest between rounds, up to twenty-four hours. Freydis promised to heal him at that time should he need it, and she told him an honorable blacksmith had already been set aside for his equipment at any time.

After that first round, though some adrenaline still lingered and Drekthac still carried some of the rage of battle, he told her, "I accept," and drew his swords again.

"Prepare yourself then, Dragon. Valniox the Traveler will enter from the northeast. Remember, do not leave the arena or you will lose the battle." She swooped up again, wings stretching wide and brilliant for an instant, before shouting, "Drekthac has accepted the challenge of Valniox the Traveler!" The crowds roared their approval, milder in manner if not excitement than those in the Underhalls. "May the gods show mercy upon Drekthac, for Valniox surely will not!"

In the wait, Drekthac clashed the flats of his two swords, sending a deep clang through the arena. He repeated the sound again and again, until the crowd took up the beat, and those that knew him chanted his name.

Dragon.

Dragon.

Dragon.

His blood churned with familiarity, the fires of rage already building once again. From beneath his helmet, he smiled, an expression bettered suited for private quarters with a woman than at a pit for battle.

The chant was interrupted in part by those in the northern stands, who erupted in cheer. He looked after their attention and saw the approach of his opponent. His fingers tightened their grip over the massive swords, pacing back as the opponent began to descend the slope.

Valniox the Traveler was not of this planet, but he could have been. He had the appearance of the qiraji, or the nerubians, or was of apparently similar aqir descent. Like a sentinel of black and pink carapace, crowned in golds with emerald and opal gemming, he skittered on small legs, stretching at least twenty feet upwards in height. His body was flat and wide like a qiraji Prophet, but rather than spider-like arms and limbs, they possessed a certain fluidity of tentacles, and its face carried the mandibles and jaws of an insect. For a weapon, Drekthac assumed the bone scythes hanging from its four tentacle-arms would suffice.

At the arena floor with him, Valniox screeched in an inhuman voice, "I left the service of my great masters to witness the strength of the mortals. I have witnessed many bold words with little bold actions, though the sight of the withering body of the great C'Thun was inspiring. Now, the time for me to move onto the next planet has nearly come, mortal, but perhaps you can show me something of value before you and your planet succumb screaming into the dark void."

Drekthac was already calculating his way of battle against this opponent. The shape gave him a very neutral, solid ground, but perhaps susceptible to tipping. The traits of the arms and blades suggested perhaps a whipping motion for them, rather than muscle against muscle. By race, it was clear Valniox would possess mentally invasive tactics, and perhaps a strong center of black magicks.

Unleashing a roaring battle shout, Drekthac charged in recklessly. Valniox interrupted his momentum by launching a bladed arm forward like a lance thrust, and Drekthac dodged to the side, turned, and swung down to sever the limb entirely. In an impressive show of control over the limb, Valniox's arm bent away from the strike in a squirming "U" shape, allowing Drekthac to hack into the icy bones of the arena floor.

With a quick glance, he saw the arm already approaching him again, and he deflected it with his sword flat, and then the second and third arms with his other blade. Noticing the fourth arm sweeping low to the ground in an attempt to cut off his feet at the ankles, Drekthac firmly planted his foot and used his strength to break free of his pin under the arms and then leapt through the gap, just as the blade hissed under his feet.

Dropping into a roll, Drekthac continued his momentum to come up with a slash to Valniox's many serrated insect legs. Quicker than expected, the monster skittered back to dodge. Not deterred, Drekthac pushed off his one planted foot again and jumped from kneel to the air with full armor, swords up high.

He managed two blows against the carapace, and they resonated like the clash of a gong, only deeper. Valniox hissed a sudden laughter, building distance between them again with his short legs. "Yes, yes! You have emotion, mortal. You have what is called passion, a fire within your mind and soul. As volatile as the chaos the birthed us!"

The arms whipped back at Drekthac. He tried to lock one into a parry, but the blades only reflected off his swords like hammering down a shield, and he grunted at each blow. He needed to be quicker. Sucking in a breath, he lurched aside in between two blows, feeling and hearing one blade carve a path through his left spaulder, and then he began to sprint forward, blades in hand. Valniox casually redirected the aim of his blows, but Drekthac was in motion now, and he made himself even more difficult target with quick lunges and side-steps.

At one over-extension of a tentacle-arm, Drekthac roared in victory as he swung down with both blades and severed it. He noticed from the side the approach of others, whipping in a short arc for his right side, and he caught it with his bracer – only to watch it slip through his enchanted steel and bury between the two bones of his forearm.

Drekthac shouted out in pain. As he was about to rip out the offending blade, Valniox abruptly pulled at it and flung him, arm first, towards the wooden wall of the Valhalas. Just as he thought he was about to hit it, the monster pulled again, ripping the wound even deeper at the change in forces, and Drekthac almost lost hold of his right sword at the blinding pain.

He deliriously thought of cutting off his own arm for freedom as he scrapped against the icy floor, still hooked, but in a moment of clarity, his left sword swung up and cut through much of that tentacle. Though lacking the power of his usual attack, it did the trick of sending Valniox into a shrieking roar, and his own attempt to withdraw the limb dragged Drekthac a few feet farther along before ripping the rest off.

Hissing, Drekthac removed the blade from his wrist as he stood and let that arm hang limply at his side for the moment, still gripping the sword with its tip grounded. For a moment of consideration, he realized that not only was the pain diminishing there, but the spell Freydis had laid over him to had mixed the pain with its burning euphoria, and the blood had stopped oozing. Her blessing was a slow blood-heal.

Valniox stared with his wide, green eyes eyes at the two severed limbs and rattled, "It will take a troublesome hour to recover these. I will take my revenge upon your flesh." Drekthac took the first step of his next charge just as the creature looked up into his eyes.

The first mental invasion began then as Drekthac found his body freezing completely. He felt the indomitable will of this creature try to impress itself over him with the dark and cold of the void, trying to consume every essence of the fire within him. At first it succeeded, but like dipping red hot steel into water, the violent reaction of steam blew back the attempt with searing reprimand, and, far more volatile than hot steel, Drekthac's rage leapt back at once, and then bloated even further in what seemed like multipliers.

"Your mind... burns," Valniox hissed, retreating from his attack. Drekthac shook off the cold tingle from his spine and began to charge again. "Such rage shouldn't exist in one mind. No mortal has the capacity for so much of one emotion."

A thrust of the arm was deflected in what seemed like an instantaneous swing of Drekthac's massive sword. Valniox gave a slanted blinked in surprise, then struck again and again, only to hiss and begin retreating as a third limb had its bladed head cut off. "What is happening? Your mind has vanished beneath the rage!"

Drekthac leapt up for duel overhead strikes, and Valniox easily retreated back to dodge. It was clear though that Drekthac had no intention of actually hit him directly. Roaring with such blazing fury, he slammed his blades into the ground on impact, and the shockwave rippled through the ground and split the icy beneath Valniox. All that weight on thin limbs had them fall through the loose ground, trapping him in place.

Drekthac was already running again, his eyes intent and unblinking upon Valniox. The creature stared with clear confusion, and it swung the last arm forward futilely. Failing to halt the charge once more, it finally called a spiral of oily magic and thrust it between him and Drekthac. "Know oblivion, mortal!"

Drethac's enchanted swords made a flat wall before him, and he reflected the spell as surely as he could with a shield. At the last step, his boot planted, and every morsel of strength he could muster, starting from his legs and up to his core and into his arms, became enhanced and multiplied by the storm of rage within. His very weapons took on an orange tint in their swings, and he tore into the thick shell of the monster and ripped it open in a wave of black blood.

"How is this... possible?" Valniox gurgled. "One mortal... does not possess the strength... to..."

Drekthac leapt a few feet into the air with his swords up, and he impaled them into the carapace of the chest, then let his weight combined with his armor drag him down and rend it open towards the middle. Valniox could only stare as his body was left sundered yet again, head tilted at the efficiency his shell was penetrated.

Panting with his rage, Drekthac seemed to have calmed after unleashing those attacks, and he finally tipped Valniox backwards with an impaling strike with one sword. On the ground and clearly dying, with the vrykul cheering Drekthac's title, Valniox asked very calmly:

"I could not possess your mind for something even more powerful already had, and that same entity gave you the strength to penetrate my blessed armor. Tell me what has happened here, mortal."

Standing before the insectoid head of him now, Drekthac poised a sword over his neck. He paused to answer, "My rage gives me strength, and it knows no limits." He flinched as the fourth arm suddenly slashed at his back, tangling with his cloak but gouging the back of his breastplate, then severed the beast's head from its body, killing all actions.

From above, Geirrvif wasted no time to announce, "Valniox the Traveler has been defeated by Drekthac the Dragon! Let the next challenge be issued!"

Drekthac sheathed his left sword to pick up the head by an antenna, and he walked it up the slopes of Valhalas to Gjonner's stand and laid the head at his feet. The death knight' eyes were more visible up close, as glowing orbs of blue, and in the shadowed confines of his helm, his lip curled.

"You expect me to be impressed by the fact that you defeated one other outsider? Get out of here before I summon my ghouls upon you!" He kicked the dripping head back into the arena.

Drekthac smirked, making his way past the host to where Freydis waited for him. Such was the rules of the tournament, to begin each match with Geirrvif and end them with Gjonner. Along the way, he sheathed his other sword and immediately set upon stripping himself of his armor, starting with his gauntlets.

At his va'kyr friend, he threw down his entire set of armor, even kicking off his boots. He was left standing on the ice in nothing more than his gladiator subligaculum. The wounds on his wrist and back were still open, clearly painting dark trails over his pale skin.

Freydis' large hand settled over his forehead. Inside, Drekthac felt liquid fire pour from her hand and wash through his whole body. The strain on his tendons and aches of his joints were cleared in its wake, and the ripped muscles and split flesh were repaired instantly. When the feeling passed, he was left feeling wholesome... and hungry.

The crowd's loud cheering progressed to the excited murmur and shouting of the usual breaks between rounds. The blacksmith took Drekthac's armor and swords and set to work and fixing the damages to them, after being cautioned to be extra careful of the large runes carved into each piece ("Damage even one edge of a rune and I'll stick you ass to mouth on my sword for everyone to witness your final flailing moments before shattering every masterpiece you ever conceived in your armory!").

A sizable portion of the spectators took a break from their stands and descended to do whatever they wished, be it eat, piss, or fuck. Women returned home to inspect their stews, and many men went to the pit floor to see Valniox's corpse up close. It was understood that Valhalas was not a quick tournament, and assuming Drekthac did not delay a match a night, it would last them until past sunset. Geirrvif briefly met Gjonner and spoke in hushed tones before returning to the battle pit floor to wait for Drekthac.

As Drekthac sat with a bowl of warm soup and ate during the wait, Freydis mentioned, "I had nearly forgotten your prowess under the effects of your armor. Is it wise to rely upon your enchantment? You cannot heal until a match is over, and my blessing cannot match the rate of the damage."

Drekthac smiled in between bites. He mentioned, "The enchantments are only a tool, a catalyst. What you saw against Valniox never even exceeded my capacity for fury."

"Your words both worry me and impress me."

After his meal and quiet talk with Freydis, Drekthac stood from his place, accepted his armor from the blacksmith, and dressed again. Realizing this, the crowds broke into an excited murmur, the war drums beginning again, and many bounded down to rush off and find those that still remained away. Once Freydis reapplied her blessing to him, poisoning his blood with fire, he began to descend the slopes back to the battle pit.

At the floor again, he hailed Geirrvif. "Lo!"

"Welcome back, Dragon. For your next match, the iron dwarves of Ulduar have brought their creations to Valhalas, seeking ascension through ingenuity. Brain and brawn have come together for this next match of colossal proportions. I do not see victory in steel over machine for you, but the choice is yours. "

Drawing his blades, Drekthac accepted the challenge, beginning the third match of Valhalas. With a single nod, Geirrvif swooped up again, booming, "From the southeast comes the Iron brothers Mjorion and Loigen! From deep within the frozen depths of Ulduar, they birthed the mechanical monstrosity called the Bousder! The brave and foolish Dragon stands ready to face the iron trio!"

A three on one battle. The crowds roared their approval, even the Hyldnir who had previously scorned his victory. Perhaps they were eager to see him die. The audience grew even louder at the sight of the three arriving at the sloped entrance and beginning to descend.

Drekthac frowned at the sight of his opponents. The iron dwarves were straight-forward, carrying a hammer and flame-cannon respectively, but it was their construct that caught his attention. It was as tall as an iron colossus, around Valniox's height, and shaped like a walking snap-turtle. A defensive guardian, he assumed, accounting for it mentally. The Iron brothers would need to be removed first.

At the battle pit floor, the red, likely copper, bearded brother shouted, "Here we go!" His saronite-bearded brother called out in agreement.

XxX

Throwing hammers and fireballs. Drekthac easily swarmed through the range attacks and dodged the attention-dragging monstrosity before cleaving apart the brothers. Both had the oddest enchantment to them, where once struck, they shrunk to mechagnomes, but he paid it little mind when facing the Bousder.

The shell proved even more impenetrable than Valniox's carapace, but Drekthac discovered the weakness of its own weight as he spun it by the tail and smashed it into parts against the pit walls. An odd battle, its danger in taking any hit from the iron beast, but Drekthac found it an easier win than the last.

"The Iron Bros and their pet machine are no more! Could it be that the Dragon is truly worthy of combat in Valhalas? We shall see!" Geirrvif announced for him, as Drekthac limped up the slopes to Gjonner.

The heads of the two iron dwarves were tossed to his feet, and Drekthac waited on the words of the champion death knight. With a loud, metallic huff, he drawled, "You showed skill and mental ability in that fight, Whelp. I would have preferred to seen you a smeared stain under that machine's foot! Now, your strength has taken you this far, but now your time of reckoning has come! Back out now if you wish to see the raise of tomorrow's sun!"

A cold feeling trickled down Drekthac's spine as he realized what Gjonner was on about, why he was so confident. Quiet enough to only be heard by the two of them, he returned, "The time has come to return Valhalas to its honorable roots. Thane Byjron will fall here."

Hands on his armored hips, Gjonner boomed a metallic laugh. Grinning viciously beneath his helmet, he said, "I can respect a Whelp like you! Let us see how much honor you maintain while he Tans you!" A mental flash of the last Valhalas, the crowd roaring _"Tanner! Tanner! Tanner!"_ as Byjron pulled the skin from the woman.

Red-hot rage seized him then, and Drekthac roared in challenge as he kicked both heads of the iron dwarves off the ledge he stood upon. Cupping his hands before his face, he screamed, "Your time has come, Byjron the Honorless! Meet me within Valhalas if you dare!"

The cheering crowd hesitated at the bold shout, turning amongst themselves with animated whispers. Then, the most unprecedented occurrence, the vargul hollered from their secluded place with voices strained from death and rot. The more recent ones had found their deaths at the hand of the Thane. Next, the Underhalls crowd cheered wildly, prompting the rest of the vrykul to follow suit, impressed.

The expressionless Ymirjar actually turned to themselves, discussing something of importance to them. According to Freydis, they had not seen any inclusion to their ranks since the Thane's awakening.

"A call for your own death," Gjonner muttered behind Drekthac. "You die with my respect, and I will spit on your corpse for warranting this disgusting feeling. Now go meet your fate!" With a holler, Gjonner grabbed Drekthac and flung him into the air, to fall back into the battle pit.

Drekthac landed on his feet, braced with his powerful legs as best as he could, ending with a small, awkward roll. At the impact Geirrvif flew up into the air, not waiting for him. At the same time, Freydis – who hovered at the northern edge of the pit – darted inside with two swoops and landed before Drekthac, taking his head in her palm and burning away the bruising he faced at the Bowsder's hand.

"The unimaginable has happened! Drekthac, who vies to prove himself worthy of Valhalas, has called out his next challenger without rest! The Dragon he may be, but the Immortal he must be to survive the next coming minutes! Thane Byjron the Thirster, your time has come to challenge the combatant of Valhalas!

"You fool," Freydis hissed to him. "Your swords are dulled from cutting through iron, and you can no longer repair them!"

"Good," Drekthac growled, still immersed in his rage. "I won't give him a clean death. I will bash his fucking brains out and break every bone in his body before he finds release!"

"Gods damn you, Baelin!" Freydis cried. "You lie in Hela's hands now! Pray to the Lady of the Sword!" She flapped her wings and retreated to the edge, just as a the crowds along the southern stands began roaring and cheering, while facing behind them.

The other val'kyr shouted, "It appears Thane Byjron comes from the south! Remember, stay within the ring of Valhalas!" Following her cry, the first of the crowd began gasping, the sound progressive as more and more realized something, until even Geirrvif hesitated then flew down near the arena floor. She told him, in a voice indifferent to the crowd, "Let your rage guide your blades, Drekthac, but do not give in to him. I am sorry."

Drekthac frowned at the reactions, holding his blades tense as he fist caught sight of the thane at the edge of the slope. The same bull's head helmet that stopped at the nose, the barbed wire shoulders and bracers. His animal fur vest over the burly, hairy chest. At his waist, cleavers and a hunter's knife mixed with more furs, and under that were heavily armored legs and thick boots.

Though a thane, it was not said that he only sat on his throne brooding. Byjron was raised with worgs, they say, which explains his ever-thirsting bloodlust. His first encounter with a fellow vrykul was against a trapper and cannibal, the name long forgotten, but after nearly having his heart eaten – the jagged line still there between the stitched vest – Byjron had overcame him and ate him as the worgs do. That was how the rest of the people found him, naked, covered in blood, and licking at the bones of a vrykul, and he took quickly to learning language and culture, rising up to be a thane of his modest village that no longer existed. Following the Great Slumber, he remained in the wilds, returning to civilization only to the war drums of Valhalas.

So it was said, but Drekthac knew that the thane had his own estates in deep Njorndar Village, near Balargarde Fortress, filled with several wives, slaves, and the occasional invite to games in Byjron's battle pit. Needless to say, those were not popular, but Drekthac had also heard that Byjron had turned several small race slaves into his own gladiators. Though curious for his kin (or closer to his kin), he didn't dare meet something already twisted into obeying that thane.

As Byjron drew closer, Drekthac noticed he had something clutched in his hand, dragging behind him and leaving a red furrow in the snow. With a frown, he studied the object, only to watch the thane scoop his free hand inside the object, pull out dripping entrails, and take a bite with already smeared lips. A fresh meal still in hand, he realized.

But even as he raised his swords in challenge, preparing for a battle shout, he noticed the wicked smile in those jagged, red-stained teeth, and his eyes caught blue from the carcass. The crowd was deathly silent now, save for the outside clans whispering questions to those of Jotunheim.

The top half was already eaten into a hollowed stump, but what remained was a blue horse body, dragged by its front legs. There were no such thing as blue horses, only... nymphs of that color.

"I'm afraid you caught me in the middle of my evening meal, Whelp," Byjron told him, his voice grating like stone dragged through snow. With a casual wave of his hand, he tossed the body aside, to join the many bones of those already slain. "No matter. I am not opposed to you witnessing what you clearly missed out on. Delicious, those simpering fey folk."

Both swords touched the snow as Drekthac's arms lost their strength, only barely held still by his loose fingers. He was absolutely still.

Byjron smirked, then paced further into the arena, and he spread his blood-splattered arms wide. "Let us get the match underway, shall we? I see the day's champion tries to hide in snow, remaining oh so _perfectly_ still to escape sight, but I'm afraid to announce, I am not so unintelligent as to fall to the classic trick!"

No, the thane was terribly cunning. He knew exactly which buttons to push to excite the crowd, and which to push to utterly demoralize his foe.

Byjron's voice rolled with grandiose engagement, luring in the crowd with what could be called charismatic speech – odd for a vrykul, but the mix of boasting and deep voice left him verbally strong. Already, the crowds were back into cheering. This is what many came to see: the Thirster would give them the show of a lifetime from their great champion.

Turning to Drekthac, with his lip turned up, he demanded, "What's the matter, little human? No words for your opponent? No tears? Or does your kind not understand sorrow, too barbaric and uncivilized to know care and compassion? Come along now, Whelp, I know you were at least breathing a minute ago."

Drekthac still had yet to budge, staring right at the unmoving nymph.

"If you will not start the match, then I shall. I'll thank you now for the meal!" With swift, surely steps, Brjyon approached Drekthac from behind, hands still empty, and likely thinking of ripped Drekthac apart with just his fists. As he reached down to pluck up the human, there was a blink of movement, and Byjron stepped back suddenly, minus a finger.

He boomed a laugh. "There you are!"

Now facing him, Drekthac still had his sword up, its end smeared with fresh red, and the sausage-sized finger on the snow before him. All that rage inside that had built up before the match seemed gone. The raging fire, the inferno of passion, was silent. Instead, there was a pulse, like a heartbeat of a separate entity, and with each pump, pure ice was forced into each of his veins. Drekthac's lower back hurt with the tension so tightly coiled there, and his fists shook in their hold of his swords – not from strain – but by the mighty grip he had on them. The steel was warping beneath his fingers.

Drekthac's prime foot slowly raised up the only action between them. The moment it set down, he forced every bit of his body off of its strength, striking with both swords in a burst of violence. Byjron met the blows with his cleavers, quickly drawing and parrying, and his grin was vicious. A stomp crunched the icy bones of the arena, and then Byjron struck back, his cleavers a flurry of movement.

From the holes in Drekthac's the helmet, Byjron could see the dark eyes glaring back at him, cold as their waters, and they did not stray from his as Drekthac deflected every strike of the cleavers. It could be unsettling, being pinned under those eyes, yet it only served to amuse the thane. Then Drekthac side-stepped, sliding over the icy and turning his momentum into a whirling strike against the back of Byjron's armored legs.

The thane stumbled forward several steps, but no bones broke with how thick that armor was. He shook his head, still laughing. In between steps and without warning, the laughter died an abrupt death and Byjron turned and launched a chained claw from his waist against Drekthac. He caught it on his sword, but before he could severe the chain, Byjron yanked him forward, and he was flung towards the thane.

With practiced ease, Byjron had his clever descending exactly where Drekthac would be, cutting him even in the air, yet Drekthac caught it with his free sword, being taken from the force directly down into the icy floor, with the change in momentum leaving his head fogged and woozy.

Hardly a beat passed before Drekthac found himself kicked away, feeling the strap of his shoulderguard biting into his armpit as it tried ripping free, but then his continued grip on the snared sword tried ripping his arm off and he hit the end of the slack, crashing back into the ice. He was yanked once again, neck straining in the whip of it.

There was no way to get his sword up in time, and the thane's clever bit into his breastplate with a shriek, slashing a deep rend through his belly and splitting the armor as his momentum carried him farther. Drekthac landed on the floor between the thane's legs, capable of only looking up into the hungry eyes, before he noticed the shift of movement, and he was kicked away again.

There was a pop in his wrist at the extremity this time, and he lost the grip of his sword without meaning to, no longer able to control his fingers of his right hand. He slid far this time, scraping up a furrow of bones, and stopped only when his back hit the horse carcase.

His offhand still held his other sword.

The fire began then too. Drekthac's eyes remained locked on the thane even from that position, and his useful hand planted down with an unsettling squish into nymph guts as he stood once again. His mind was too far to realize it, but Freydis' fiery blessing cooked his stomach wound and wrist, and the spark seemed to ignite all the flame that had had been strangely absent in the presence of his rage.

There was no noise in the arena now to Drekthac. His mind had vanished, been wiped under the control of something else, and his very muscles began to clench and relax in a strange dance of inhuman feelings. They writhed unnaturally, infusing with rage, finding amplification in physical ability as more and more of that supernatural essence filled his soul. There were limits to how much one human could handle, capping out in human emotion, but Drekthac seemed an exception to the rule, as it exceeded the natural human limit by many multiples.

His body was tearing itself apart from it.

Drekthac shifted his weight to his toes, standing there as he was, yet just that contraction of his calves caused a twitch of his thighs, and he was rocketed forward in a leap even greater than the one they called heroic. Byjron saw the approach with wide eyes and mouth, and he stepped aside to escape its path. Drekthac ripped open another path of ice at his sliding landing, and then he was sprinting forward, with a starting few normal steps that accelerated into a blurring sprint.

Byjron caught the first projected strike on his cleaver, only to shout in surprise as his blade was shattered into grey droplets that showered over his arm and face with cutting intensity. The helmet became porous with new dents and chips, but the right eye was popped by a long shard that took him clean through.

Drekthac's forward foot stopped and caught all his force, then projected him to the right, following Byjron's path. The joints screamed and strained, but they held under the change of force. Drekthac's next slash took Byjron in the chest, cutting off the hide vest and splitting a deep rend over the chest. Drekthac's dulled blades hadn't touched flesh, despite the spray of red mist.

But with those few attacks, the rage was mostly expelled from the muscles, and Drekthac was left roaring in agony and challenge as he stood before the staggering Byjron. Freydis' spell was a hot fire in his blood as it tried fixing the damage left behind. The fury in his expression still smouldered unrelentingly.

As his mind came back to him, Drekthac realized again the difference in height between him and a vrykul. Byjron towered over him, his eyes barely level with the thane's crotch. Staring at the wound on the vrykul's chest, he wondered just how he had managed it so high up.

Truthfully, that was only the second time in his life he had ever been so consumed in rage, due to his armor. He wasn't entirely familiar with the effects, or able to control his actions fully.

It was clear now to Drekthac, Thane Byjron, Freydis, the hosts Geirrvif and Gjonner, and everyone in the crowds that this match would not be as one sided as the rest of the Thirster's matches. He and the thane regarded each other carefully now, during the tremendous roaring from the crowds. The war drums had taken up beat again.

When armor was crafted, blacksmiths usually included an enchantment or two for value, leaving enough room for one more of the buyer's choosing when he found an enchanter later. For Drekthac's armor set, crafted upon the enchanted anvil of the Forge of Fate in Dalaran when it still hovered over Crystalsong Forest, Drekthac had personally overseen its shaping and enchanting.

The better enchantments were too large to be etched on armor or too powerful for small pieces of steel. They needed to be broken into pieces, like a puzzle, and when the puzzle was complete, the enchantment could finally form. After the usual enhancements for bodily durability, stamina, and strength, Drekthac had chosen a nine-piece set enchantment that heightened the efficiency of the supernatural rage that empowered true warriors. It directly infused into his muscles, so the more he had made him that much stronger, and the enchantment removed the limit his spirit could hold at once.

What Drekthac had noticed, the few times his rage exceeded what he was supposed to feel, was a possession of his body and mind. A being of fury and bloodlust, nearly demonic in intent yet controlled by his own desires. He trained not to control this being of possession, but to control his passions that guided it. Even at his worst, he would maintain control.

Against Thane Byjron, who was both deceptively quick and physically mighty, he felt this enchantment would be needed for victory. The thane had experience in fighting the small races, and Drekthac experience in fighting the large. Their skill would be matched. Also for this fight, Drekthac knew he needed to extend it as much as possible. Freydis' blessing healed him over time, so the longer it lasted the more he could recover while Bjyron grew exhausted, and since he would be cycling amassing large amounts of rage and channeling it back out, he would need every bit of healing to maintain the efforts.

Drekthac attacked first, swinging in wide with his sword and locking Byjron in a parry. Despite the sheer mass of the thane, their strength was matched, and it was an easy trick for Drekthac to seize advantage of the awkward angle of Byjron's arm to weaken the parry and split open a gap. With a lunge, he jabbed his sword into the fleshy stomach. Iron-like flesh pinched inward at the force, the rocks beneath bruising, but Freydis was right that his sword had been dulled by his last fight against true iron. His hit was no different from a mace's blow.

Turning with the blow, Byjron planting his back leg and shoved forward, swinging his cleaver up quicker than Drekthac could block. It chipped his shoulderplate and sent him spinning back once. They both pressed forward again. This time, Drekthac called upon more experience against the vrykul, and he weaved by the decapitating strike to stand between his trunk-like legs, then disregarded his sword to grab one fur-covered tree in a bear hug and pull back with all he could.

Immediately, the Underhalls group roared in excitement, calling out his tile Dragon in a mantra. It was their Champion's classic vrykul-tripper. Byjron, falling off balance, quickly seized Drekthac by his cloak and tugged him with him, then over his head, and Drekthac panicked as he saw the icy ground rushing towards his head while carrying the weight of himself, his armor, and all of Byjron's. Such a quick reflex!

_Mother..._ Drekthac started, arching his back to shove his plated elbow into Byjron's bull's head helmet to press him lower. They hit the ground with equal, tremulous force. _Fucker!_

He tried rolling away after, but Byjron still had his arm around Drekthac's legs. One vice-like fist clamped around his plated leg, and the pressure began. Drekthac didn't even have time to worry about the metal warping or shattering as Byjron began to pull, clearly intending to rip his leg clean off.

By then, the rage was already strong in him again, still within normal levels, so he raised his left elbow from the helmet to smash his hilt into it, denting the dark and green saronite. Growling, and screaming, he flailed on top of Byjron, just enough to lower himself down a few inches, and as his hip dislocated – sinew held by their waning elasticity – his dull sword crashed with a clean blow into the helmet, leaving a furrow several inches deep.

Byjron knew his position. Claim the leg but have his face cleaved in by his own helmet, or let go. The binding arm released him, and Drekthac was flung off his sweaty, bloody chest and ragdolled into the ice. The armor absorbed most of the blow, but he fell dazed. He found Byjron still had his leg clenched as he was flung again to the other side, and then was dragged up as Byjron sat up for a better angle.

Again and again he was helpless to the flailing arm. He closed his eyes and let his armor do its work in protecting him, and he focused with all his rage into keeping his head through it all. Byjron could not beat him this way. It ended with him shoved face-first into the icy, bone-snapping soil – flattened by his own body – and then Byjron leaned his massive weight onto Drekthac as he yanked free a knife from his waist.

At the pause, Drekthac struck, mustering whatever he had left. Freydis' spell burned his body like lying in a bonfire. His fists planted in the ground, several ancient bones cracking, and he pushed himself up, lifting all of Byjron's weight in the meanwhile. The thane jumped his weight, sending several tons of force against his back, but he held through, locking out his elbows. Byjron conceded the hold by grabbing Drekthac by the helmet, massive fist encasing it, his shoulders, and half of his chest, and then flung him aside.

Drekthac ended his new slide and stood back to his feet, smiling victoriously. His rage burned deeper inside him than Freydis' spell could, and he found himself excited for the next round between them. Briefly shaking his head to clear his swimming vision, Drekthac found Byjron again. He also saw his second sword, stuck into the ground fifteen yards away.

Byjron stared at this human champion with his lip turned up. Like a cockroach, it refused to be squashed, no matter how small. He saw those human eyes through that battle-worn helmet, intent dead on his still, unforgiving. He did not know what the Whelp's relationship was with the nymph, but apparently it wasn't enough to demoralize him, only serve to fuel his rage.

Gods be damned, a true warrior to know how to use his rage, rather than fall prey to it. But he wasn't the only one to know how to tap into the consuming fires of war, to use its power.

Byjron never cared for the other vrykul, not the people or their ideals. Honor was a fools ideal, and excuse when he fell in battle. There was only survival, and the pleasures of life to enjoy before ones own end. However, just this once, he knew the vrykul-respect for an enemy. Consuming his heart would taste only that much sweeter now. Perhaps his skin could be stitched into a cloak, as a memento of this enemy that could challenge him in a ring.

They came together again, Drekthac low and Byjron high. The human slide down to escape the first engagement, but Byjron was ready for the attempt, and he plucked up the child-sized opponent by his breast plate. In a lightning quick strike, the dull sword broke Byjron's wrist, but his good hand managed to yanked at Drekthac's armor by the collar, straining to rip it from him. The small wrist slammed against Byjron's and stopped the attempts, but there was the satisfying snap of buckles, and the armor loosened before Drekthac fell back to the ground.

There was another quick scuffle as Drekthac broke free of them and managed to dive and find his sword. His noticed the white puff of his breath as his hand found the warped hilt – the curve away from his palm now – and he continued his momentum forward with it before turning against Byjron at the ready. His right hand, the wrist healed now, spun the sword briefly to let the curved hilt fit properly in his fist.

The roar of the crowds was painful now, but it was also outside his focus. His ears were of no use in this battle, was the assumption, as nothing Byjron did could be heard. Only the vibrations of noise could be felt. The looseness of his armor was an annoyance, and it was clear the last two buckles would snap easily if caught. Without his breastplate, on top of being utterly exposed, Drekthac' enchantment would fail, leaving him the usual warrior.

He knew he needed to expend what he had built before that happened.

Byjron was a bloody mess now, but clearly it was not enough to even slow him. He was missing a finger and had a broken wrist, unfortunately on the same arm, and the wound on his chest had dripped over everything below. Only one silver eye glared out of that helmet now, the other ruined, and both were riddled with small lacerations from the roughness of battle – Byjron more than Drekthac due to the completeness of his armor.

With his good hand, Byjron scraped up his chest with it, smearing himself with his own blood, and he held it under the snout of his helmet to take a good lick, grinning.

In a rage-fueled burst of speed, Drekthac came again, but he stomped the ground before confrontation, staggering the thane. He threw his all into one heroic strike undertaken with both blades, and they came arcing in from opposite directions too swiftly to be dodged. Still with a hideous smile, Byjron had no intention of doing so. He stepped closer awkwardly so for the angle of the strikes, and threw his clever down Drekthac's chest, slipping it under the line of his loose armor, between it and his skin.

The fight changed pitch then. Everyone in the stands jumped to their feet, screaming every word imaginable, their excitement frantic now. Gjonner no longer watched with disdainful, apathetic eyes, instead leaning over the end of his ledge intently. Geirrvif had a hand over her breastplate, where her heart had once been, in a gesture of life carrying over in undeath.

Like the sound of a wooden beam snapping, Drekthac's sword impacted the vrykul's legs just above the knees and broke the titanium strong bones beneath, and his right sword also sundered into pieces from the impact. In the same instant, the clever slide down and inside not just the cavity of his breastplate but inside his body, deflected by – but cracking – his ribs and burying into the guts of his intestines. Drekthac could feel the cold, hard, rigid steel interfering with the flex of his abs, gasping out at the sensation.

With his shaking right hand, he dropped the hilt of his shattered sword and grabbed Byjron's wrist, then forced it upward, clenching his eyes shut as it carved a new path up and pulled at his innards clumsily. He staggered back, unable to breath, but then Byjron's sword caught at the top lip of his breastplate and yanked back. He saw the grin as it came ripping off, and he fell back onto the ice, his very skin numb to the feeling at the moment.

It was inhuman, the way Byjron still stood on those clearly broken legs, but then he too fell, stopping himself with his hands. Vrykul were born into the world able to walk on their own power. There was something different about them. Looking down, he could see pulsing spurts of blood oozing out of the wide line on his chest. It burned with pain and Freydis' spell, and perhaps the wound wouldn't kill him because of it, but the fight was nearly over now.

Teeth clenched to the point of nearly cracking, Drekthac slapped his right hand over the line, stopping more blood from spilling out. He fought to stand but failed, hearing Byjron laugh across from him. He looked to see the thane dragging himself forward, legs semi-useful. "Your time has come, Whelp. I'll take my first bite into your heart while it still beats!"

Delay, every instinct screamed inside him. The blessing would work its magic, but it needed time. Drekthac opened his mouth and sucked, using abs that clenched and fought him the entire burning way, managing the slightest breath and was immediately puffed out. He tried again, quicker, finding only faint pants.

He was strangely glad then for the bit of extra fat he had packed on. With his ribs deflecting the blow down, the blade had caught only the end of his bulging stomach, not the full inside – just behind the abdominal muscles. He was downed, mostly defeated, but he wasn't dead yet.

The things he'd do for a healing potion at that moment of time.

He found a second wind suddenly, and his lungs took in greater and greater quantities of air. The very rage that drove him began to heal part of his wound, working with Freydis' blessing, and Drekthac began to struggle to his feet again, before Byjron could get to him. Hand still over the wound, he found his feet, beginning to push on weakened, straining muscles to stand from his squat.

It was the most basic and essential of strength exercises, the squat, which gave his legs all the power that carried over to the rest of him. The motion was something he was so experienced in, and he found himself comparing this moment to standing from the last attempt in a heavy set. Groaning, he pushed himself up entirely, and gasped relief as his knees straightened once again. His hand slipped, gushing more warm blood over him, but he readjusted quickly.

Just then, Byjron's hulking fist found his leg and clamped down with all of the thane's unwavering strength. Drekthac was grateful for all of the training meant to teach him to never release his swords, no matter his predicament. Through it all, his left hand still barely clung onto the blade, and he slammed it into the wrist. In his current state, it wasn't enough to do any damage.

Drekthac hissed as Byjron pulled him down onto his back again. Not as much blood oozed out when his hand slipped, clearly clotting with supernatural speed. Staring at the thane's face, Drekthac remembered Leyanna. The darling nymph that hated brutal violence, hated where he was now. She made him promise he would kill Byjron, to put an end to such a monster. A flash of the mostly eaten nymph followed the memory. Using more of his rage, Drekthac swung his sword again and crushed Byjron's fingers, freeing his leg.

He found new strength, scrambling around and releasing his hold over the wound to advance. In an awkward kneel, he lifted his sword over his head and roared as he swung it down and smashed into Byjron's good wrist, shattering the bone. He remembered the woman raped just before her husband, watching her being stripped first of clothes and later of skin. He remembered the brutality, the remorselessness, the excitement everyone was demonstrating. Being in the pulse of the crowd when witnessing Byjron in action.

Stumbling forward, he swung down again, holding the massive sword in both hands, and there was a pop somewhere when it crushed the vrykul's back, near the shoulderblade. He reached to serve more punishment, natural rage sustaining him now, but something elsewhere called attention, demanded his battle-attention when nothing else in the crowds did. Someone was standing at the edge of the ring, a spell of black in her hands, with ruby red hair dancing in the sensations of magic.

Hardly a second later, there was a white blur – swooping down – and he witnessed Freydis skewer the woman from the air in a perfect thrust. The two vrykul were carried into the air, Freydis' force continued, and then they fell into the hollowed ground of Valhalas with the caster at the center of the fall, still with Freydis atop holding the polearm inside her stomach. The vrykul reached up once for the val'kyr, but then Freydis lifted her polearm and plunged it down again, into the chest. She twisted it, a scream resounding, and the woman died a few moments later.

"Useless... bitch," Byjron hissed, and Drekthac's enraged eyes fell upon him again. The human returned, "May Hela show you special attention, coward!"

Strangely, he found himself praying as Freydis commanded: _Lady of the Sword, see my strike true._ Byjron's hand swiped at him despite the wrist, and Drekthac deflected it with his sword flat before lifting his sword high. He found strength returned to his arms then, with no strain to lift it, and he swung down with every bit he had left. The stubborn thane's other ruined hand tried to grip the skin of his stomach, the thick fingers digging in and twisting as if to rip his skin off, but the sword swung down into the bull's-head helmet once more and the saronite contraption broke to the blow, allowing the sword all the way down and into his skull. The bone cracked and head flattened under the dull blade, before the skin split and pinched, pulling it aside to reveal red and pink in a swell of vrykul blood.

Thane Byjron was dead.

The crowds saw the last blow and roared, the intensity overwhelming. Drekthac blinked with dizzy eyes at them, hearing only pain in his ears. He was delirious, he realized, and chuckled to himself, falling finally aside and not moving. The last words he heard were Geirrvif screaming over the crowd, "A-Amazing! The unthinkable has happened today... Drekthac the Dragon- Nay! Drekthac the Immortal has slain Thane Byjron the Thirster! Who would dare to challenge him after that? Who dares contest that he is worthy of combat in Valhalas!"

Then he blacked out.

XxX

Drekthac's return to consciousness was not like the usual times he blacked out, with the dizzy, distorted memory leading up to wakefulness. No, there was fire, consuming his whole body, and he lurched awake with a start, as if from a dream. His eyes opened to a dark, wooden cabin, and he saw a bright, ethereal hand of snow pulling away from his face. A moment later recognized the covered face of Freydis, and the dull lighting of his own longhouse in Jotunheim.

Sweet pickled his brow and skin from her form of healing, but Drekthac paid it no mind as he stared at her. He could tell, from the darkened windows at the corner of his eyes, that night had fallen. He could feel too that he had been stripped nude and washed of blood before being laid here and his healing finished. It was just the two of them.

"Leyanna," he started, voice hoarse, but Freydis shook her head quickly.

His friend told him, "I personally raised that nymph's corpse to see the identity. It was not she." Drekthac nodded, relieved.

They sat in silence for a few moments longer, him on his bed, her on a chair beside him. He felt like a child, dwarved first by his bed and also by her. The vrykul world required shoes bigger than he could fill, physically speaking. He liked to think he managed it metaphorically, but there was always the chance that one of the giants looked down as if at a young upstart.

Snorting, he began to sit up, grunting at the pains still ailing his body. Only time and movement would work that out. As the heavy, furred blanket fell from his chest, he noticed the wide, white scar demanding attention just below his ribcage, visible beneath his thick chest hair. It made all of the other pink and white lines seem insignificant, nearly an inch wide and the ends splitting in two like a narrow 'X'.

Looking up, he saw his armor complete and flawless, resting on a chest at the far wall at the foot of his bed. She had seen to it being repaired, and the swords too, he noticed next, with their hilts straight again peaking up from behind the chest. Nodding absently, he asked, "So Valhalas?"

"Delayed until tomorrow," she replied simply. "You have one final match. Several thanes were demanding challenge to Geirrvif immediately following, calling your victory a fluke, but she confirmed she would choose only the single greatest from among them for your final trial."

"Who was that, on the wall?"

"The woman? Gardjon's first wife, Helnif. She was thought to have walked into the fires of the funeral pyre, but we discovered she had sent only an illusion, and she had bargained with Byjron to have you killed no matter what. Her spell would have turned your innards into acid, meant to be cast if it was clear that Byjron might not win."

Drekthac snorted a laugh, ignoring how it tugged at his sensitive stomach. "What a bitch. Tell me Byjron wasn't raised vargul."

"No, he was left to rot, unattended and unhonored, and join the bones of the dead at the battle pit floor."

There was another pause of silence, only his heavy breathing and the crackle of his braziers, until he asked, "So is anyone out there petitioning to Geirrvif as deadly as Byjron?"

It was Freydis' turn to laugh scornfully. "Not a chance! When the Overthane refused to challenge you, they asked the Arbiters to find and raise Iskalder. Your victory has caused quite the uproar."

Iskalder, Drekthac mused. The name was familiar, but he had never met the vrykul himself. Apparently, he had been the greatest vrykul warrior to ever exist, but because it was so, he was one of the slowest to wake from the Long Slumber. During the war against the Lich King, his death was prearranged by some adventurers. He was not given a fair battle, nor a fair death. It was also said that his killer went on to slay Overthane Balargarde, the last Master of Jotunheim before Overthane Ufrangsson, before being called into Valhalas and winning it all.

He wondered what happened to her, that warlock now sung in vrykul songs.

His attention returned to Freydis when he noticed her standing. "You need to rest, to sleep. Healing cannot account for everything."

She stopped when his small hand caught hers, the rough bumps of past wounds and calluses scrapping over the unnaturally soft skin of the spirit. He asked, "Must you leave?"

Her lips turned into a smile as she beheld him without eyes. She squeezed his hand once, then shook her head. "Emotions and duty are all this body is composed of now. I would not be able to restrain myself if I stayed." She tried to pull away.

"Good," he rumbled, and he tugged her back, strong enough to move her to him.

Freydis stumbled, and she caught herself with one hand planted beside his head, her face only a few inches from his. "Baelin," she whispered, pleading, as his hand reached behind her head and began to pull off her face-mask. It was snug to her head, but with the right grip, he inched it upwards and off, finally revealing her full face to him.

She carried all the strong features of a vrykul. The broad forehead and pointed nose, the high cheek bones and nearly square jaw. Her ghostly eyebrows were thin and refined, dark as her hair, and her eyes were smooth, pupil-less orbs of light blue glass. Their eyes locked, his first time beholding hers, and the first time she had seen him physically, without the perceptions of a spirit.

After setting the helm aside, his thick fingers came to her large lips and touched them, dry but smooth and soft. Her eyes were intent upon his, and she bit her bottom lip when his fingers left them. His right hand left hers to find her shoulder, and he pulled her closer to him, as he leaned towards her.

"Baelin, please-" she breathed, just before their lips met.

It was like a splash of cold water, the realization that Drekthac was kissing Freydis, and they were completely still for a long moment. Then the fires began. Left hand tucked behind her head, Drekthac pulled her closer to him, and she returned the kiss with all the passion that he was demonstrating. The bed rocked as she leaned her weight onto it with him, resting over him now.

The kiss separated to them breathing heavily, even her, and Freydis sat up straight for a moment with her hands going behind her back, kneeling over his legs now. The bindings that covered her chest unraveled, and she threw her breastplate aside, letting it clatter over his stone and wood floor. Her vrykul-sized breasts dropped into sight, no longer so tightly confined, and she was topless before him.

With an arm around her waist, Drekthac yanked her back down, and they fell into another powerful kiss. His other hand slid up her smooth stomach to her breasts, and he seized a handful, kneading. Her skin wasn't the typical burning warmth of a vrykul, nor the amiable steel-like cold of a frost vrykul. It was skin, perceived without warmth like it exactly matched his, everywhere he touched her or she touched him.

His tongue met her lips first, only for her to aggressively turn the tables by thrusting hers into his mouth. It's thickness and length, that of a vrykul's, tried filling his mouth, and his met the slimy appendage. The fingers of his hand found her stiffened nipple, and he pinched and rolling it, feeling her groan lightly into his mouth.

Their was no perceivable difference between this val'kyr and a regular vrykul, he realized quickly.

The hand reaching to her waist dragged down over her belt and bottoms to her smooth, white thighs, rubbing them briefly, before coming back up and taking a handful of her ass. It was always a stretch, with the difference between size, but she had accommodated by sitting higher than usual and arching down her torso to kiss him. The hand moved back around, to her thighs, and went up and in, to her dark frostweave bottoms. His first notice of strangeness was that her skin was not warmer near the crease, but then he dug his fingers under the cloth.

Hissing against his lips, Freydis pushed herself up off him and reached one hand down to to where his was, yanking it back. With a thumb, she undid her buckle, pulling her belt off, and the flimsy cloth came undone with it. While she was off him, Drekthac threw aside his blanket, letting the cold air wash over him, and then she sat again, just below his engorged member. Her torso came to his again, a softness to his hardened body. She carried all of the strong thickness of a vrykul.

Drekthac let his hand see for him, dragging back up her thigh to the apex. The usual coarse hair was trimmed close down, and his fingers curled downward over the mound to the split. His hand touched only the outside, but he could feel already the the wetness she was demonstrating. She wanted this as much as he did.

Just as his fingers ventured to go further, her hands found his shoulders and shoved him back against his pillow. The hungry look this new face of Freydis showed only served to fuel his arousal, and he beheld all of her at the break of motions, relishing the yearning dig of her fingers into his melon-sized shoulders. One of her hands left him to reach down and grasp his manhood, stroking up in a slow, deliberate motion.

Under the strength of her pin, he could only watch as she sat up and positioned him to her. He was at full, tensed rigidity when he first felt the touch of her folds, impatiently waiting for the penetration. She slid him down the slick line into place, and both caught their breath at the hanging moment before it would happen.

The moment began to linger though, the hesitation clear, leading Drekthac to look up to her white-blue eyes in question. Her face seemed scrunched in pain at the moment, dispelling his thought of pushing up in prompting.

Her fingers still clutched at his left shoulder, and she began to drag her hand down, nails scrapping over his skin along his chest, as she hissed in a strange fury, "I _can't!"_

Drekthac said nothing in reply, knowing what he wanted but honoring her choice, whatever it may be. He began to realize though that the val'kyr only served that Ymirjar, and this was a physical conflict between her duty – what she can do – and what she and all her passions so desperately wanted. It showed on her face as painful.

Finding his voice, he growled, "Tomorrow then. I'll be a fucking Ymirjar tomorrow, and I'll rape you if I have to."

Her glossy eyes fixed on his again, expression vicious. "You fucking better, Drekthac. Gods damn you for starting this!" She released him and slammed back down on his thighs, her face angry.

Still in the heat of the moment, Drekthac didn't let her rest there, instead seizing her wide waist in both hands and tugging her beside him to lay down. Her feathered wings remained closely tucked as he pushed her to her back and slid up on top of her this time. Their faces remained locked for a moment, before his hands came back to her clenching abs.

"You may not be able to please a champion tonight, but I'll have you screaming before the morning sun," he told her, voice throaty.

"You'll pleasure a val'kyr?" she asked scornfully, knowing her place and duties. The bitterness was at her position, not him.

"You gods damn know it," he snapped, just as his fingers cupped her sex again. Freydis stared at him, eyes wide. With one more kiss, Drekthac positioned himself downward over her.

* * *

AN: Well, the bottom of my chapter had notes for me to review. You're free to offer your own speculations on them:

-Should Drekthac have been more hurt? Should it have lasted longer? Should there have been less decisive blows and more casual fighting? Was Byjron's use of rage not properly shown?


	12. Chapter 10: Ymirjar

**Disclaimer:** The songs within this chapter are adapted from the Prose Edda, in the Skaldskaparmal chapter. I do not own the rights to the Prose Edda, don't seek to make profit from it, ect.

* * *

Chapter 10

_Ymirjar_

* * *

X Underdog X

There was a strange tension in the air at Valhalas the following day. The audience was bubbling with questions and shouts, not the usual cheering, while Geirrvif remained with Gjonner in discussion for nearly an hour after Drekthac's arrival. He stood at the arena floor, arms crossed and waiting. There was a certain liveliness to the vargul though, barely tolerated on the surface of the world.

Finally, the val'kyr took to her wings again reentered the arena. The war drums began their beat, and the crowds cheered in excitement. At the floor, Geirrvif met with Drekthac, nodding to him. "You return, Drekthac the Immortal. Forgive the delay, but things have been in uproar since the death of Thane Byjron. It seems a return to tradition can only be found through further breaking of it.

"Now, your final trial is before you. Many believe you have already proven worthy of combat in Valhalas, and finding a more challenging foe is a difficult challenge, but from the many hate-filled petitions, we have chosen one of worth. She is a champion of a different challenge, the Hyldsmeet in Storm Peaks, and she is called the Hyldskvinnar. It is said that Midna Frangdottr has been possessed by the Lady of the Spear. Will you face the Hyldskvinnar in final battle?"

A Hyldnir champion. Drekthac nodded his acceptance, drawing his swords. He couldn't help feeling strangely elevated since the previous night. He shook off the daze though, announcing, "I accept her challenge!"

As she usually did, Geirrvif swooped up high, to the roar of the crowd, and bellowed, "From the tallest mountains of Storm Peaks comes this hardened champion! Hyldskvinnar Midna Frangdottr, blessed by the Lady of the Spear, challenges Drekthac the Immortal to final combat within Valhalas! We shall see now if he is truly worthy of combat in our sacred battle pit!"

To the shrieking cheers of the Hyldnir stands, an armored woman stood with her polearm and bellowed a vrykul battle cry. She jumped down to the icy rim of Valhalas, then inside to the pit floor. Drekthac did not return her cry, instead pacing aside with his swords at his waist.

From behind the confines of his helmet, song rose up:

"Swift God of Slain, that wieldeth

The snow billow's wave-hawks,

The ships that drive the sea-road,

To thee we owe the dwarves' drink."

The crowds roared at it, pointing and standing. Others shouted disdainfully, abandoning the old ways. Such was a song of before the Lich King, a Death Song, that glorified the deaths they now regarded so disdainfully. It was a long one, but Drekthac had learned it true.

It was low in the pit that they regarded each other. Midna advanced slowly, her polearm ready, but even with her size over him, Drekthac could see the icy walls around them rising up so high, and beyond even that the many faces of the crowds. As he sang, he looked up, only idly minding his opponent. At his back were the bones of a massive drake, either proto or dragonflight – he could not tell – from a Valhalas long past.

"'T is mine to pour the liquor

Of the Host-God's mead-cask freely

Before the ships' swift Speeder:

For this I win no scorning."

Roars and shouts, the division between the old and new clashing tighter. But then, the noise rose yet again, overtaking Drekthac's song, as Midna dove forward with her polearm and he parried. But it wasn't to them that they reacted. Behind her, three of the Ymirjar had entered the arena without prompting, and their weapons were bared. Drekthac pushed from the parry, pausing his song, as he paced aside with his blades pointed at them.

"What is the meaning of this?" Geirrvif demanded, soaring down to the floor between the advancing Ymirjar and the combatants. "You who are already worthy of combat here have no right to interfere with those who seek to prove themselves!"

The one at the lead, blue skinned and wearing rime-covered armor, growled, "Stand aside, Spear-Wife."

Geirrvif looked up to Gjonner, and the other host grabbed his two handed axe and leapt from the ledge, clear over the Ymirjar and beside Geirrvif. The crowds had quieted to a low murmur, seeking to listen in to the strange twist. Midna stood apart from Drekthac, glancing between him and the Ymirjar.

"You will return to the stands, or I will slay you were you stand, maggots! Have you no honor for the walls of Valhalas?" Gjonner boomed, his fury thick in the metallic voice. Freydis and another val'kyr Arbiter lowered themselves to the floor.

Without slowing, the one at the lead returned, "We will be taking over this challenge. This... Hyldnir is no match for the slayer of Byjron." He paused, only to draw his arm back and hurl his own polearm forward. Everyone was helpless to watch as it passed the blockade and skewered Midna through the center, despite her best efforts to dodge and deflect it.

"His steed the lordly Heimdallr

Spurs to the pyre gods builded

For the fallen son of Aman'Thul,

The All-Wise Raven-Ruler."

Drekthac continued his song, as the woman was flung back, impaled, and fell to the icy floor. It seemed this tournament had become a long string of broken traditions. Gjonner's reaction was violent, throwing up his arm and sending thick beams of light into the soil, raising ghouls from the defeated of Valhalas.

"Now you die, mongrels!" the death knight screamed. With the conclusion of his spell, he and all his score of ghouls leapt upon the Ymirjar. The leader deflected the first strike with a drawn sword, and he bellowed, "Beor, handle the Spear-Wives! Ignvar, the human is yours!

"What dream is that? quoth Aman'Thul-

I thought to rise ere day-break

To make Valhall ready

For troops of slain."

Drekthac did not wait for the challenge. He charged into the approaching Ymirjar warrior, and they crashed blades with equally powerful swings. Though unwavering in strength, Drekthac's size had his feet skid back several feet in the ice, but his eyes remained locked on the warriors, teeth bared in a snarl when not singing the Death Song.

He dove under the next strike, jumping up behind the vrykul before he could turn, and his blades descended with lethal might. Ducking, the warrior caught them on his pauldron, then he swung his hooked axe at Drekthac's side. He jumped back, feet pushing against the ice and snow hard enough to not slip. Once the blade passed, he dove forward again, managing to thrust his sword point into the armored stomach, but unable to pierce the armor, only sending the Ymirjar stumbling back. They leapt at each other again.

By then, the crowd was continuing the song, remembering from a distant past their traditions of old. The culture that had once defined them, before the wakening and the Lich King.

"I roused the champions,

Bade them rise swiftly

Benches to strew,

To wash beer-flagons;

The Val'kyrs to pour wine,

As a Prince were coming."

Freydis engaged the one called Beor. These warriors were Ymirjar no more, by all definition, to defy the sacred place of their Ascendance. His sword caught her polearm, sliding down to take her through her stomach, but her wings pushed her back in a heave just before. The other Arbiter dove from behind and scored a rend in his armor, before he turned and swatted her out of the air.

"You are no match for me, you sniveling fledgling!" Gjonner roared as his axe descended and shattered his opponent's. The Ymirjar man was calm and cold as he stepped back, the dagger called a scramseax finding its way into his hand. He was without fear as he struck down another two ghouls, keeping his eyes on Gjonner before rushing back in.

"I pray the high-souled Warder

Of earth to hear the Ocean

Of the Cliff of Dwarves, my verses:

Hear, Earl, the Gore of Kvasir."

Drekthac and Gjonner both growled as their back's touched, facing their opponents. The vrykul was much larger than him, making them an odd duo, but their attention never wavered at the contact. With equal bellows, they engaged again with the Ymirjar.

With a war cry of her own, Freydis called black magic to her hand, and she thrust the spell against Beor. The warrior had his blade absorb much of the attack, but still rotting corruption touched over his flesh. He drew a hand axe and hurled it towards her.

"The Dwarves' Crag's Song-wave rushes

O'er all the dauntless shield-host

Of him who speeds the fury

Of the shield-wall's piercing sword-bane."

"Spear-Wife, to me!" Drekthac hollered, and he kept his momentum from his latest attack as he locked his foe into a parry. The surprised Ymirjar was forced to step back, lest he be overcome. It left him trapped, however, as only a few moments later, Freydis appeared in a quick blur to strike him from behind. Against the force of Drekthac's push and the vrykul's own momentum, he was skewered clean through, with the spearhead appearing from Ignvar's breast.

"The body of the dame

And my dead be borne

Into one hall; the Drink

Of Dvalinn, Franklins, hear."

As Drekthac stepped beside Gjonner, the death knight cried, "His head is mine!" Drekthat took the shout with a smirk, returning, "We shall see!"

Together, they attacked, and against two foes, the Ymirjar found his armor needing to absorb most of the attacks as he struggled for a way free. Drekthac found his attention caught, however, as Beor struck his back, wounding him through his own armor.

The rage was burning hot then, beginning to exceed his limits, and Drekthac turned upon Beor in a red-white fury. Freydis did not need to assist him as he cleaved Beor nearly in half, though the vrykul seemed hardly phased as his torso still moved enough to strike back.

"I reveal the Thought's Drink

Of the Rock-Folk to Thorimsteinn;

The Billow of the Dwarf-Crag

Plashes; I bid men hearken."

It took a few more decisive strikes to have Beor lying dead, and all of them rounded upon the last. The Ymirjar, his left arm missing now, shouted, "You would have a human enter our gates! Hela take you all! They know not of glory, of honor! I would die a thousand deaths before permitting this disgrace!"

His rant was interrupted to parry an attack, and he was left retreating. He roared at first chance, "Gjonner the Weak! Geirrvif the Foolish! Freydis the Befuddled! Ionis the Jackal! Drekthac the Poison! I bid my curse on you all! May the gods never bless you again for this treason! You will die blind and lame!" He was still dealing with the ghouls, cutting them down mid-retreat, until his back touched the wall, and he fought like a cornered dog.

"The Prince requires my lore,

And bound his praise to pour,

Aman'Thul's Mead I bore

To Kalimdor shore."

With a roar, Gjonner hurled his two handed axe, and it spun end over end before taking the vrykul right through the chest. It cut off his continued words, while Drekthac slid up beside him and took down his leg. With the last of the Ymirjar defeated on the floor of Valhalas, Gjonner shouldered aside Drekthac to take up his axe again, then severed his head. The ghouls were left to feast on the remains.

All at once, the crowd that had taken up the song concluded it:

"Let the Princely Giver hearken:

I hold the God-King's liquor.

Let silence, then, be granted,

While we sing the loss of thanes."

Black and red blood was splashed over the five of them, as they panted in the after wake of the short battle. Even the white-bodied val'kyr were marred with the blood of those Ymirjar. Drekthac looked to Gjonner; Geirrvif looked to Drekthac; Ionis looked to Freydis. They said nothing, until Geirrvif hovered over to the fallen Hyldnir and touched her neck.

"Dead," she announced, shaking her head. The crowds were silent once again, with the conclusion of the song. Even the Hyldnir were speechless. Such an event was unprecedented. Taking to the air again, Geirrvif pointed a white finger to the last two Ymirjar, whom had not joined the others in the ring. "Do you possess honor, or will you die to defy all this tournament stands for?"

The one who sat his legs legs splayed before him, axe over knees, spat onto the ice. "Those were not our brothers! If that Whelp could not beat them, he would not be worthy of their place in our hallowed city!" Beside him, the female also spat, then pointed a fist at Drekthac and declared, "We wait to welcome you, brother!"

With a firm nod, Geirrvif descended to the Valhalas floor and met with Drekthac, who stood beside Freydis. She demanded, "You, warrior, who sought to prove his worth in Valhalas. After this heinous treachery, your trial must continue without pause. What say you! Will you keep on?"

Clashing his blades once, Drekthac shouted, "Let any who dare challenge my worth come down now!"

Turning, Geirrvif pointed to Gjonner the Merciless, whom had fallen silent, and she asked, "What say you of our combatant's worth, Host? You have fought with him, a brother in arms! Is he worthy of combat in Valhalas?"

From his position below the towering vrykuls, Drekthac could see the way Gjonner's lip pealed up, repelled, as if asked to eat a rotting apple. However, he still paced away from them, facing the crowds, and a gauntlet-encased fist gestured to Drekthac as he roared, "This small human, repulsive as he may be, has shown more strength, honor, and respect for vrykul way than any of these disgraces here!" He stomped on Beor's head, popping it and spewing out wet brains. "He is worthy of combat in Valhalas! He may pass the Gates of Ymirheim unopposed!"

Drekthac turned at the sound of rushing air, and he saw Geirrvif swooping into the sky once again. With her broadcasting voice, she roared, "ALL HAIL DREKTHAC THE IMMORTAL, CHAMPION OF VALHALAS!" Regardless of their opinion of him, the crowds cheered. The reaction was deafening, overwhelming him like a physical tide.

Drekthac's remaining rage finally trickled out. He thought to accept the praising cries with his usual bravado, to give the Dragon's Roar for victory, something of similar boast. But his swords fell from his hands, crashing into the ice with their heavy weight, and he fell to his knees, humbled. A choke of emotion tried to even bring tears to his eyes at the long-fought honor of this.

He was startled as a vrykul's fist seized his arm and yanked him up. He saw Freydis, smiling as she lifted him to his feet and held his arm up for all the crowd to behold. Standing on his own now, Drekthac found his voice, his excitement and energy, and he did roar.

He roared loud enough to be heard even in this uproar, and he roared until his voice ran out and throat creaked hoarsely. His victory roar. Those from the Underhalls jumped from their stands and sprinted down – even jumping over the ledge – to get into the ring of Valhalas.

They all watched as Geirrvif, beautiful in her rage, summoned forth the spirits of the defeated Ymirjar and raised them as vargul. Even the vargul in the stands joined in the jeering for the three men. As all three cried out at their fate, the val'kyr's voice boomed, "You three are exiled to the lowest pits of the Underhalls, never to witness the warmth of the sun or the honor of the blade ever again! May the darkness consume your bones and the Hela's rot give your every moment agony! Now go!"

There was authority in her voice, of a val'kyr over the spirits of the dead, and the vargul had no choice but to obey, bemoaning their fate even as they dragged themselves out of the pit to be spat on at cursed before entering the mouth of the Underhalls. The other vargul began to follow, their reason for coming complete, and each saluted and nodded to Drekthac as they passed. Drekthac did the same back, to the group of them, before being swept up in the storm of celebration from his followers.

XxX

It was many hours before Drekthac was ready to leave for Ymirheim. Freydis and the other val'kyr, Ionis, escorted the remaining two Ymirjar back to Ymirheim immediately, so he would be undertaking the journey alone. His approach and status would be announced prior to arrival.

His old traveler's backpack had been exchanged for a runed vrykul chest when he first settled into Jotunheim, which made carrying difficult. However, Overthane Ufrangsson granted Drekthac a Njorndar proto-drake for his Ascendance. It reminded Drekthac that the current Master of Jotunheim was as clever and diplomatic as his father, though thankfully with the right allegiance.

Ufrangsson had accepted Drekthac into his city long ago, resisted every plead to throw out or mob Drekthac, and now presented him with a gift. He knew that Drekthac carried power and intent, and opposing him, rather than making an ally of him, was a large mistake – one his father had more or less died for. Drekthac would not forget the Overthane's generosity or tolerance.

The chest was filled with all of Drekthac's meager belongings before being sent ahead as a forerunner to Ymirheim. He decided to name the green-scaled beast Coralhide, after his trek into the oceans of Stranglethorn Vale, so many years ago. It was tradition for the journey to Ymirheim to be undertaken by foot.

It was with a heavy heart he said farewell to the bedwarmers and meadhalls of Jotunheim, though already the reverence the people were showing him was alienating him. He was strangely glad his time as a Valhalas Champion would be spent in a new land, for he was already riding the winds of change once again.

So he left the city in just his armor, weapons, cloaks, and a sack of thick vrykul coin pieces. At the city edge, they sang a song in his name, until he was too far to hear, and then it was just him and the icy, howling winds of Northrend, placed beneath the colorful Ghost Light of the northern sky.

He followed the narrow mountain path through Jotunheim's natural, protective peaks, careful to watch his footing. Beside him, the icy rock could reach hundreds to thousands of feet into the sky, until a little over a half mile of climbing took him to its winding end, cresting a bluff well above the valley of Icecrown's glacier. It was a short walk over the bluff to reach its far end, and he stepped to the ledge to peer over the land.

It was distant, but he could make out the mountain of Ymirheim, where the city was built onto. It showed as a black rock in the distance, poking from the white-grey veil of fog down below, in the Scourgelands. He could also see the black lines of the saronite walls. Streching miles wide, they could be called nothing else, yet folk seemed fond of the label "gates" for the small holes at the very center to allow troop movement.

None of those lied in his way to Ymirheim though. Gathering his drake-skin cloak closer to him to deflect the icy winds, Drekthac looked down the mountain he must first descend. It was a languid switchback, with wide highways and many open mounds of snow and icy that rolled off to the distance either way. To the south, he saw the place he had distanced himself from Leyanna, a mere mile from here – but a long climb.

There was no use in delaying further. Drekthac turned from the view and began to head down the slippery path, one booted step at a time.

XxX

Drekthac was halfway through the misty vale between mountains when he noticed he was no longer alone. He appreciated the lack of subtlety of his confronter, for he was very unforgiving to those that hid in the shadows and struck when his guard was lowered. Such made him angry.

The raspy chuckle was distinct and very foreign. Taking the cautious route, Drekthac lowered his drake-skin and frost-weave hoods, then threw back his cloaks to reach for his swords, drawing them in the typical, long hisses of heavy steel passing their iron sheaths. He could make out the low silhouette of the creature, dragging forward through the mist towards him, with eyes that glowed green even in the monochrome here. Three eyes, how quaint.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Drekthac mused, approaching it in turn. "Tonight's dinner perhaps, or just something to get my blood burning and body warm again?"

It was a curious creature, that was certain. It appeared like nothing he had seen before, dragging its stomach over the ice and snow like a lizard, yet clearly humanoid in head and limbs. At least, so he thought, until two more limbs peeled off its back, squirming upwards into the position of poised claws. Now it was just interesting.

A certain wrongness struck him in his gut, though it hardly phased Drekthac. The feeling came whenever he encountered something from off of Azeroth. It had gotten better with orcs and draenei, though he largely ignored them, but it was the same feeling when he met demons or the old god's faceless ones. He had gotten it from his Valhalas opponent Valniox the Traveler too.

"You certainly don't look tasty, runt. You better last the first swing, or else your presence here is entirely useless," he told it, scoffing, as its grinning face was finally visible through the mist. He couldn't really make out any of it but the smile and eyes, but it was enough to fight this thing.

Knowing better than to underestimate his foe – which was a good way to lose a hand, foot, or finger – he slipped into a battle stance and prepared for the first encounter. It struck first, skittering suddenly in a burst of movement, and it flowed around him and out of reach for his first sweeping strikes.

It was fast, he acknowledged. The first mark went to it, as its back-claw scraped over his breastplate at the back and battered his cloaks. Turning, he lunged forward and managed a downward strike. It tried escaping, but he got his blade through its ass, skewering it into the ice. Leaving his sword there, Drekthac spun his other blade in his hands pensively, wondering now at his pinned opponent.

It began to cough and sputter, like a cat with a massive hairball, and Drekthac knew that was not a good sign. He stepped back and slipped into a more defensive stance, ready to dodge whatever acid attack or sonic-blast it was chewing up. It came with a bright glow of orange, like liquid steel, and he stepped aside just in time. There was no feeling of heat at its passing, telling him of its acidic base, and he rushed back in to finish the fight before another one could take him on the chest.

Roaring, he spun his whole body out of the path of its strike, then used the momentum to cleave its whole body at the shoulder, severing the head from the beast. Dark blood sprayed out in quick spurts, some on his armor, and he kicked aside the thrashing torso dismissively. His left hand grabbed its sword again and yanked it free.

It took him a second longer to realize the new lightness of the blade, before realizing it had been decomposed at the middle by a huge chunk. Cursing, Drekthac realized the acid was in its blood and he bent to scoop snow from the ground and rub out where it had touched him. Dark furrows were left behind in his armor, causing him to frown, but it was nothing that couldn't be fixed from a decent blacksmith.

He noticed then the smoking and shaking of the creature's corpse as it roiled upon itself. First one and then the other limbs began to pop off in violent bursts and snaps. When it was all finished, the was only black chunks of fleshy carapace and sizzling piles of blood lying about the area, but ultimately its reaction was nothing impressive. A curious creature indeed.

Giving a stern look around, Drekthac knew he could only see a few dozen yards in the distant for any direction. The frosty air killed any scent, even that of death here, which left him entirely blind in the valley. There could be any number of these creatures out there, just at the edges of the white. He shrugged off the thought.

Grabbing the severed and dripping head in one gauntlet, Drekthac continued on his way.

XxX

They had seen him long ago, that much was clear. However, none had hailed him or challenged him. In fact, the scouts remained carefully hidden, only caught twice by the frosty helmets as they hid themselves. Drekthac had taken the most obvious path, skirting all of Ymirheim to reach the way to the gates. He could have scaled the western side, but he wanted the honor of passing through them.

As he rounded the last bend up the mountain path, holding his cloaks closed with one hand and the head in the other, he saw before him the blue flame lantern that marked the start of the Ymirheim city. He was nearly there, to his new home. Staring now, he saw the wooden walls, and they were nearly as imposing as the saronite ones below.

Wooden beams were dug into the ground to stand, lashed by crude iron into thick segments, and each of those was held into place by massive chains that stretched all the way into the rock of Ymirheim itself. The walls stretched for hundreds of yards in either direction, and they soared upwards in forty to fifty yards of flat face.

For the gates themselves, thick columns of wood had their heads carved into the faces of dragons for either door, and those columns reached the upwards of sixty yards into the sky, the faces leaning over to glare down on travelers below. Clearly, to get get single logs that size, they must have been imported from Sholazar Basin or even down in Grizzly Hills.

None one took lumber from Crystalsong Forest. Not even the Ymirjar.

Drawing closer, Drekthac could see two sentries standing before the gates, and two others on top staring at his approach. He looked to the gates again and noticed the insignias mounted there. Not a flag, not for the Ymirjar. They did not mount the image of a weapons but weapons themselves.

A round shield, longer than Drekthac was tall, was the center piece bearing its drake-skull paint, with two intersecting vrykul two-handed axes beneath it. Tucked vertically behind it all was a massive claymore that put even Drekthac's swords to shame – it had to be between ten and fifteen feet in length. He couldn't think of any monster, humor or vrykul, strong enough to wield such a weapon.

In a challenging voice, one sentry demanded when he was close enough, "Declare yourself, small one. Why do you intrude upon our hallowed city?"

The woman was a huntress, a blue-skinned frost vrykul, in mail armor and a thick hood, with skulls bouncing at her waist. He noticed human and vrykul, but the third he could not recognize. Glancing at the head in his hand, he didn't see any connection, however.

Releasing his hold over the clasp, Drekthac allowed the strong, icy gusts to throw open his cloak, and he hailed her with his hand. "My name is Baelin Drekthac, also called the Dragon. I have won access through these gates in the sacred confines of Valhalas. I am Ymirjar."

"So you are the one they call the Immortal," her companion grunted, blades held lax at his side but not disregarded. "The non-vrykul that seeks to enter our realm. Many have sought the same, and we have allowed none to pass these gates."

Drkethac rolled his large shoulders, striding forward. "You are welcome to contest me, brother, but you will not stop me from what is my right."

"I was hoping you would say that," the hulking vrykul purred, his lips smiling. He began to walk forward, towards Drekthac. "First rule of the Ymirjar, boy, that any challenge must be accepted on the spot. I will welcome throwing your battered body down the slopes."

Drekthac only drew one of his blades, keeping the head clenched in his other hand – he did not know why it so fascinated him, but he wished to see it in the light, to make sense of his odd enemy. The final few yards between them, they worked their way into a sprint, both throwing their weight and strengths into opening blows. Too late, Drekthac realized he had grabbed his corroded sword, but the faithful steel managed to hold against the might of the Ymirheim defender.

Their fight was quick but brutal. The defender was remorseless and relentless in his attacks, but Drekthac quickly realized that the man was not seeking to kill him. Truly, it was a challenge match, like the duels he had participated in back when Drekthac was affiliated with Stormwind and the Alliance.

That made him comfortable with the bar of steel in his hand, and he used it to batter the vrykul as he could, while taking a few blows himself. It ended after an unfortunate blow clocked Drekthac in the head, but while his ears were still ringing and his eyes crossed, he manged to take from him the vrykul's footing, sending him to the ground.

Rage saw Drekthac through the staggering head blow as he scrambled atop his opponent and held the bar against his throat, keeping the vrykul pinned under his knee. The first attempt to swipe him off was blocked, and the second had the vrykul's hand twisted until the wrist nearly popped.

Drekthac stopped to the sound of vrykul laughter, coming from the gates. He eased up the pressure on his ruined sword and looked to see the huntress holding her sides, and those on top also laughing. "Well done, small one! You have won your first challenge in Ymirheim! Leave that weakling there and enter. Welcome home, brother."

It took him a few shakes of his head to realize what she had said exactly, but then Drkethac had staggered to his feet and made his way to the gates. The woman stood aside for him, nodding once in passing, and for the first time, Drekthac beheld the frozen Ymirheim of legend.

It was... chaos. Very quickly, Drekthac's aching mind cleared as he focused on what he was seeing. At first, it seemed the city was in a state of war, with men chasing men and hulking vrykul braced in epic combat, from shattered swords to missing limbs, while hunters and huntresses maintained high ground before finding themselves overwhelmed – and switching to the snake-like melee of rogues and rangers.

The snags of bright white in his vision showed him val'kyr, flitting about to retrieve those grievously wounded in this battleground, and they healed the defeated back into life in the same burning rush Freydis had done to him between rounds. In some cases, accidents found a vrykul slain, but the same winged servants easily recalled their spirits to their bodies, raising them not undead, as had been the time of the war, but in the runic resurrection of the vrykul.

There were dozens to a hundred warriors that Drekthac could see, but not all vrykul were engaged in the war. On the sides, there were those bustling by with a glance and holler, laughing at particular moments. The defeated especially were escorted to his Drekthac's far left, where long tables were laid out and laden with foods and casks of mead. The val'kyr were there too, carrying frothing horns to fill the empty cups of those feasting there.

For a moment, it was as if stepping into battlegrounds of the heavens, exactly as the legends described it: where men could fight in daily wars without fear, and when all was finished, the could feast and drink with their brothers in arms. And there would be song, and women, to live the lives of champions without ever losing their skills of warefare – nay, they would only sharpen them in the passing years.

Standing near a blue-flamed lamp post, Drekthac watched the battle continue, as more and more were defeated, and the sides became more obvious. There was a wide mix of vrykul and frost vrykul, but the spread of gender was nearly five to one in the men's favor. However, the women that were here showed no disadvantage to any of their foes, be it through swiftness and limberness, or even hard strength.

In a few short minutes, the frantic conflict was over, and the last of the warriors – both wounded and victorious – shouted over moments in the battle, with friend and foe, with the last of the val'kyr following at a more sedate pace. They all spoke in the vrykul language, telling him he might need to finish mastering it. It was then Drekthac noticed he was no longer alone in his observation, as a black winged val'kyr waited patiently.

Seeing she was without words, Drekthac spoke first, "So the legends are true."

"Legends you are now apart of, Ymirjar," she returned formally.

Wistfully, he found himself watching the feast, where there was music and song, boasting and loud words. The brotherhood of the Ymirjar was so clearly real, and from the playful brawl that broke out for a brief moment, it was so clearly vrykul. There was no prejudice between vrykul and their frosty kin, no lines between clans.

Clearly, this was nothing like the organized, elite military force of the Lich King it had been in the war. No, these people were each champions, not soldiers. There was no government here, only common cause and tradition.

"What did the Lich King change?" he asked finally, still just a spectator of this home. Pausing, he repeated in the vrykul language, _"What change Lich King has made?"_ He recalled after speaking the verbal inflection meant to make "change" plural, but she understood.

Still in Common, she told him, "Walk with me, and I shall speak. I am to be your guide in Ymirheim until you relieve my services. My name is Maldrid."

She turned from him to begin drifting along, towards the northern bend of the city and away from the tables. Drekthac clutched the head and his cloaks closer to him as he began to follow, peering from his hood with curious eyes around him.

They fell along the main, icy road of the city, and several vrykul were still about that had not been part of the battleground. At his appearance, many stopped to stare and speak questions to each other. They would know that a human had won Valhalas and would be joining them, but they did not yet know what to make of him and his impact on their traditions.

At least, so he had thought, until Maldrid began speaking, "A history then, of the people you have joined. Long ago, millennia before the Long Slumber, when the rock dwarves still traded with us regularly and the trolls were many, there was a persistent problem with the champions of vrykul-kind. To find true honor and glory, they would seek death in combat to a worthy opponent, but time and time again they proved greater than their foes, no matter their adversary. Life for the greatest warriors became dull and boring, spent dreaming of the battlegrounds of the heavens that it seemed they could never join.

"It started with intentional weaknesses. These champions, who then carried no name but their own, would open tournaments to face them, only with them weakened. Some would remove an arm, a leg, or both eyes, others would drink poison before each battle. They began to find the deaths they sought, and though slain in true battle, there was little glory to it and their sluggish, debilitated actions."

As Maldrid explained the history, Drekthac continued staring around them at the city. His map suggest the half-circle of it around Ymirheim mountain was around two miles long. He wondered where exactly his guide was taking him. They entered a marketplace, and he looked at the trade between Ymirjar. Coin rarely seemed to pass between hands, but often words were enough. He roughly translated one exchange as a calling in of a debt.

Maldrid continued, "Displeased with this, several champions came together and decided on a tournament between them. They met in the vast city of Jotunheim and dug the pit for their battle themselves. The people flocked, intrigued by this battle of champions, and so the first Valhalas was held, named after the realm of Valhall, the paradise for true children of war.

"As is the case for such things, one still lived, still escaped a glorious death, but for the first time, a champion found excitement in combat. A truly glorious victory indeed, to win that tournament. Arbiters were employed, tasked with scouring the land for those worthy of competing in such an arena, and more and more proved themselves as worthy of combat there. To win or to die, either result was truly a glorious end for the warriors of old.

"Even in the beginning, you must understand, Valhalas was not exclusive for vrykul, not since the first match. If you could provide challenge, you had a chance to prove yourself worthy. As the pool of winners began to grow, even as many reentered to find death at new, greater foes, these champions began to find comradeship, glad to die at each others' hands and at times take up arms together against encroaching threats. First a camp, then a village, was formed around the mountain of Ymirheim, which has evolved into the city you see now, which was exclusive to these warriors proven to be worthy of combat in Valhalas."

There was a plot of land devoted to the savage proto-drakes, many harnessed for travel and all snapping at each other restlessly. They seemed as eager and vicious as their masters. Coralhide, Drekthac's own drake, was not among them, but he remembered the green-scaled beast to be much smaller than these white.

"Ymirjar, these people were called after the mountain in which they dwelled," Maldrid said, with hardly a pause. She did not rasp her words in anger or frustration, but instead seemed to glow with pride at the history. "In only a few decades time, it was decided to style this place of champions after the realm of champions, spoken of in song. It was Valhall on Kalimdor, for those proven worthy."

Drekthac noticed a colossal building, with its entrance feeding into the mountain, and it echoed with noise inside with men, women, and val'kyr flitting in and out ceaselessly. He stared at it in question, prompting Maldrid to clarify: "That is the true feast halls of Ymirheim. Those tables you saw are hardly a picnic for the southern war games. Come tonight, you will witness the true essence of Ymirheim within."

"How many does Ymirheim house at the moment?" Drekthac found himself asking.

"We do not administer census, but it can be guessed that between five hundred to a thousand Ymirjar live following the fall of the Lich King, and nearly that in val'kyr. Of course, there are many that do not dwell here among their brothers and sisters but instead visit the world. Lately, however, there has been an increased return of your wayward clansmen."

"Things always seem in motion on this planet, in the last decades or so. The abrupt waking from the Long Slumber of the vrykul is only one such event," Drekthac told her, pensive, and Maldrid nodded.

With a gesture to the head he still clutched, she said, "You are not the only one to enter out gates carrying such a trophy. There are many faces we cannot identify, and of varying reports of strength."

Drekthac recalled the strange creature he had fought and briefly wondered at it again. Quickly, however, he shook his head and said, "Continue your tale."

Maldrid nodded, beginning to continue leading him onward. "In that time, they knew of two traits of Valhall that Ymirheim lacked: death and maiming were mortally concerns, and the women were not plenty for the servicing of the champions. The city possessed only the Ymirjar and their slaves. Those without still found themselves having to labor their own lives.

"So a call was put up, starting with the Arbiters of the Valhalas battle pit. Come to serve the Ymirjar, it said, if you were a female vrykul of strength and skilled in the ways of runes. Ascend to the position of the Val'kyr of Valhall, the Battle-maidens and servants of the legendary Ymirjar. Even among vrykul, who disdain the ways of labor, the honor was too great to pass up, and so we came to serve.

"Then, we were not as you see us now. We were vrykul as those you know, branded with the marks of rune-masters, and carried the title of Val'kyr, the handmaidens of the Ymirjar, and then, Ymirheim was much like you see now, where war is commonplace, and the paradise is real. You are free to summon any handmaiden you wish, and should your words be appropriately honeyed, you will find us willing to serve you in the bedroom too. Insult us, and you dare our wrath for a day. Also, if you step outside the city and let yourself be known as Ymirjar, do not be surprised to see women line up at a chance of bearing a child of your blood and strength – even you, human."

Her next words came with only a small reluctance. "Now, when we woke up from the Long Slumber, we were in a turbulent time. Even the Ymirjar could not escape the call to Sleep, and there was great disorientation as we tried to make sense of the world and freshly arctic land, where many of our cities were missing – and the chunk of the planet beneath what you call Northrend now icy waters. Kalimdor had been broken, we discovered.

"We were still in the midst of repairing our world when the Lich King came to us. You must understand, we thought him the Death God – he that oversees the true Valhall beyond, and when he called, none could say no to his promises. The Death God himself had come to guide us in our time of need. He took especial interest in Ymirheim, thankfully not full of scorn at the imitation but genuine interest...

"So it came that the Ymirjar were offered true _immortality_ at his hands, to die once and be reborn to eternal lives, able to triumph any death. They were raised as death knights, and we the val'kyr were also so blessed, given power to extend our healing magicks and services to beyond the grave. With the change and urging of the Death God, the afterlife and Valhall lost meaning to us, as we strove to find ascendance on this planet, in this life, and that is where the disdain you must find common occurrence has come from. True death is no longer given the honor it deserves. The songs of Valhall have grown quiet."

"And now?" Drekthac prompted. He noticed two vrykul, a frosty male and regular female, raise stone mugs towards him and Maldrid, and he nodded back. The duo drank while watching them pass by.

"And now, Drekthac the Immortal, the cold grasp of the Lich King has been broken, and we are free to continue life as it was meant to be for the Ymirjar. Slowly, tradition is returning to us, and even though many despise small-kind for their triumph over the vrykul and Scourge in the war, even more see you as worthy enemies. The Ymirjar are unbroken from your efforts, but nearly half of our warriors were lost in Icecrown Citadel or in the ceaseless, daily raids upon our city."

Only "half," when legions of all races had given their gates a new coat of red paint and added more bones to the tundra.

As their walk continued, Maldrid explained that Drekthac's home would be on the opposite end of the city, in the south eastern end of the half-circle. His stuff was already there waiting, as was his proto-drake. When asked where she was taking him, if not to his home, Maldrid only said, "We are here, champion. Inside is the one who summoned you. I will wait here for your return."

With a pensive frown, Drekthac turned from the black-winged val'kyr to look up at the building they had stopped before. Surely they were near the end of the city, on the western end. Much like the feasting halls that had been pointed out, this one also built into the mountain and was of similar vast stature, though its broad, wooden double-doors were sealed shut. It looked heavy, made out of entire trunks for each plank, and each half of the door stretched at least ten yards from the center.

Up, Drekthac looked, to the dragon-skulled posts mounted atop the archway, to the slanted roof adorned with red drake-skin, and from that high ceiling, windows betrayed orange light within, mounted up high into the building, or on a second floor, if this building hadn't been of vrykul make.

Mounted on the arch, however, below those windows, Drekthac also noticed a black helmet that blended in with the painted wood. It was smooth, with upright wings before the ears, and the shape of it was clearly a face-mask. Drekthac knew where he was, and whom had summoned him here. The Val'kyr Halls.

Without further reluctance, Drekthac tied the skull to his belt with the string of a sack, wanting both hands free finally and uncaring of it jostling at his waist. Then he stepped up to the doors, planted his palms on the lacquered wood, and with his powerful legs, he pushed against them until the doors began to split and open, stepping through it until it was wide enough for even a vrykul to pass unhindered.

Indeed, there was no second floor, for it was a magnificent hall of the vrykul. Brick arches soared up into the air for thirty or fourty spans, with high-mounted torches and braziers giving light and depth to the massive cavern of stone. But this was no empty relic, even the receiving hall here. Brilliantly skinned val'kyr tossed about in the air, graceful as hawks, as they moved about their tasks in a dance of flight. Two Ymirjar stood on the ruby rug-covered floor, speaking solemnly with a small congregation of the winged folk. In the distance, just beyond them, Drekthac could see the alcoves beyond the arches began to feed into corridors, rather than armor racks and weapon stands.

Once he released the doors, the oiled and slanted hinges had them closing again under their own weight – slowly, but persistently – and a glance back showed the massive, iron handles to pull on to open them again. There were two ornate, twisting ones in the middle, for a vrykul fist, two much higher but smaller, for a val'kyr in flight, and two down low, also small, for one of Drekthac's height or even shorter – a dwarf – to escape.

For the first moment of looking into the hallowed place of angels, Drekthac listened. In the conversation before him, he picked at the words, hearing about what sounded of a small race army approaching (or passing) their city. They gleamed with familiar gold and carried heavy maces and shields, one said, and mentioned a reluctance to drag attention of the _"light warriors"_ to themselves unless challenged. His partner was clearly in disagreement, desiring aggressions and using the word for _"a glorious death in worthy battle."_

In the murmur of the place, between the louder voices of the vrykul, Drekthac cupped his hands before his face and bellowed, "Freydis! Hear the call of the Ymirjar and come!" It was well that he was used to attention, for every head turned his way at once. Even with the natural deepness of Drekthac's voice, it distinctly lacked the mountain-rumbling of a vrykul.

Come she did, not by wing but on her sandaled feet. From the darkened bowels of the halls she came, marching with singular determination, and so called attention to herself among the spectating, and speculating, crowd. As she did though, and the words "Baelin Drekthac," "Dragon," and "Immortal" were passed around, there was understanding, and the watchers returned to their tasks without further comment.

"My," Freydis greeted, a smokey hum in her voice, "I did not think you possessed the stones to call upon me so publicly."

"You owe me... a great deal of _things,_ Arbiter," Drekthac told her, his voice growling a lower pitch now that she was to him. "And I'm not sure what order I'm getting them in, but I am getting them all tonight."

"So you desire a fulfillment of debts and promises, Ymirjar?" she asked in a faux formality.

Drekthac rose to the bait. "I desire the deed to your name, val'kyr, and your services. And I won't be denied."

Some of the closer val'kyr looked over to them, hearing the last phrase, yet Freydis never hesitated: "You have them, my liege."

Taking her hand, Drekthac began to pull her towards the door, away from the gawking val'kyr. He felt her strong grip as her hand encased his, and she followed with long strides. He asked her, "Should I relieve Maldrid of her services?"

"Has she displeased you?"

Drekthac frowned, his brows furrowing, as his free hand found the handle of the door. He hoped the bolts ran all the way through the thick wood as he pulled with a great heave to get it open. In reply, he explained, "I have received my val'kyr."

"I am an Arbiter, who oversees the trials of Valhalas and the combatants within. That is my service to the Ymirjar, in finding them by spirit and leading them to their destinies. Maldrid is a handmaiden, whose place is to serve those within Ymirheim as the Val'kyr do in Valhall, and she was first to offer herself to be of service to you."

Freydis stopped them once they were through the door, before they could rejoin the woman in question. "You have no reason to dishonor her in replacement, unless you feel she needs replacing, and by an Arbiter no less."

"How does this "receiving" thing work then?" Drekthac asked. "Does every Ymirjar have their own handmaiden?"

"Those that are new do, usually for ten to fifteen years until they are no longer new. Following that, it is common to see a Ymirjar claim val'kyr he has personal ties with, much like what you have done just now. Often with the same handmaiden they had began with, years down the line." Freydis had an amused smile as she added, "Though never in history has a Ymirjar claimed a val'kyr on his day of arrival, let alone her accept the claim."

They moved the last distance to Maldris, as Drekthac exclaimed, "New for ten or fifteen years! Fifteen years ago, I couldn't even swing a sword properly, and I stopped calling myself "new" by my third year in."

"Yet compare yourself now with the third year Baelin. Would you not call that Baelin still new in the ways of arms? How about fifteen years in the future, do you think you'll still improve enough to call your present state new?"

"Sassy bitch," Drekthac grunted, before greeting Maldris. "So where will you be staying while I am at home? I'm not fond of inviting strangers in while I sleep."

"You need have no concern of me," Maldris told him, bowing her head to him and to Freydis. "I will be there only when you call, or when you partake in the games of war. I can depart now, if you wish for privacy with Arbiter Freydis?"

Drekthac glanced at Freydis, still unsure of val'kyr customs and how they related with the vrykul ones he did understand. With a shrug, he said, "I expect to see you at the dinner feast. Prove to me there you live up to the name of the sacred val'kyr of Ymirheim."

A certain brightness came to his guide's face. "You will be dead drunk before your horn can go dry. Welcome home, hero."

XxX

Gods above.

Drekthac had thought that vrykul women were monsters in the bedroom. Their strength and heart, their unrelenting and voracious passions, did things for him no goblin brothel could ever emulate. It was for this reason he would always be glad to take one to bed, no matter his size relative to hers. It's not like it was difficult to set a woman off, if one knew the tricks.

However, for all that he had thought of vrykul, it turned out that val'kyr were even more. Passions and duty were all they were composed of, Freydis had told him, and it made the swell of emotions that much more intense. Every touch elicited a response, a gasping breath, and trying to frustrate her... well, Drekthac did not yet know if he could walk to that feast without a flash of healing first.

Gods, Freydis was so beautiful, and in those moments together, there was none more erotic.

As they lay curled together, breathing returning to normal at a slow pace, his skin still slick with sweat, Drekthac began to stroke Freydis' black hair. Her full face looked to him so sweetly, the small smile there that she always tried to hide around him. If Drekthac believed love was a real thing, he was sure this would be it. Since there was no such thing, he could only say he was happy with her.

Here they were though, in Ymirheim, as she always promised he would be, if he gave it the chance. Just this night easily made up for all the pains of Valhalas.

He kissed her broad forehead, then her thick lips, before breaking their long silence: "I believe I was also promised answers."

"About?" Freydis asked absently. She sounded exhausted and sleepy, despite lacking a mortal body.

"How I can take that collar off your neck."

That sparked her attention, and Freydis scooted up in the bed, allowing the blanket to fall off her chest. Her eyes opened again. He caught the serious mood of her and prepared himself. This was not just something "big," it was something that defied the very nature of the Lich King's tight, inescapable control. Even dead and frozen, the Lich King's grip could be inescapable.

"Understand, Baelin, that is still a matter whispered in secret between us val'kyr, and even then only a theory, still untested. I trust you with my very soul, and this conversation will reveal the very depth of that. I know you'll need no further caution of discrepancy. Not even to the other val'kyr, to Maldrid herself."

"You know me, Freydis. Now speak, tell me what I must do."

"It is not a matter of you. It is us. I am bound here by the will of my master, the duties he has impressed upon me. So long as he sleeps dormant on Icecrown Glacier, I must remain on Icecrown Glacier. But tell me, if my collar tells me to do every action I already want to do, is it still a collar?"

Drekthac actually considered the question. Philosophy was for the cowards who busied themselves books and words and tried to dictate a world they would never fight for, but he understood the basic ideas. "No, it wouldn't be." Essentially not, for she would still possess freedom of will.

Freydis nodded once, then followed with: "And if I were to swear fealty or offer my services to a lord, and he would have me do actions I might not always do, does that make me a slave?"

He began to wonder where she was going with this. Years prior, Drekthac had done some casual bodyguard work, so he knew what she was speaking of. "It is respect and trust, on loyalty freely given, but indeed slavery if impressed into work otherwise."

Again, his beautiful Freydis nodded. "That is why, Baelin, I would make a pact with you, and tie my soul to yours. You would become my master, my lord, and I would swear all fealty, in life and death, to you. And in this way, I become free."

There was a beat of silence, a pause. It began to stretch. Freydis shifted forward in the bed, looking to his face, but his gaze remained locked on the wooden wall of his longhouse. Then, at the gentle touch of her hand, he began shaking his head.

"I can't do that, Freydis," he rumbled thickly. A pain began to grip his heart, something vaguely familiar, and a thrum of rage began to trickle through him in response.

"You can, but you chose not to," she returned, her voice indifferent. "Why?"

He turned finally, his large, dark eyes of coal and deep earth shining. His hand found her large one and squeezed tight. "I mean to marry you. I _cannot_ have you as my servant, my slave. I cannot!"

That familiar yet unfamiliar white face of hers softened as her hand gripped his in turn. "Just because you have the ability does not mean you must abuse your hold over me. I would only be a slave if you made me."

"Made you? Made you?" Drekthac shouted. "Look at who I am, Freydis! At who we are! My wife would be strong, independent, and keep me in check. I am just to pretend that she isn't a pathetic slave bent to my every word? That if I asked you to do something, you are doing it freely, and not because magic compels you to?"

"I would already do anything for you," she admitted quietly. "My liege." The words cut into his heart in a joyous pain, and Drekthac continued his violent refusal:

"But you can argue with me, fight me. You make me feel not alone in this world, one a human clearly would not be a part of! If we did this, you would become a tool, regardless of if we choose to label it that way, and you mean so much more than that to me. I have you, Freydis, and I will keep you as my wife, not my slave. You will be by my side and command all the respect I do when I actually take slaves."

"It is the only way I can be free."

"Then let your duties coincide. You must serve the Ymirjar, so serve me as my val'kyr, not my slave. If you cannot leave Icecrown then we won't leave."

"You aren't even sure if it will mean full compulsion like it does with the Lich King," Freydis remarked, as Drekthac drew back the blanket from the rest of her, leaving their naked bodies entirely open to sight. "You might be able to loosen the shackles, or my mind overcome the bindings when it is your kinder will."

Drekthac was stroking her thigh now, upwards, to a tremble of goosebumps and a short inhalation of breath. His dark eyes glared up into her white ones. "Enough. I know what compulsion is like, especially that of the Scourge. If a time comes where such is imperative, we will decide then, but for now the topic is done." His hand reached her mound, dragging down to the plump netherlips.

Freydis glared back as his fingers dragged along, beginning to probe lightly, until her large hand encased his shoulder, squeezing. "You gods damn honorable, lovely, magnificent, fool of a hero." She yanked him up so their hips were aligned, and his hardness touched her. "If I am yours, then show me. Claim me. _Make_ me yours."

So he did. For the fourth or fifth time that evening.

XxX

Drekthac was sure his legs were wobbling as he made his way into the feast halls of Ymirheim. Behind him flanked two val'kyr, Freydis and Maldrid, the latter of whom came to rejoin him halfway into their walk. His body still felt light and elevated with afterglow, not to mention completely exhausted. Freydis seemed to be lofting about lower than usual, with careless bobs in the air.

The doors to the halls remained open, presumably always, and so the trio entered. Other Ymirjar were with them in the tunnel, some of them moving with val'kyr and some val'kyr simply hurrying by to perform her duties within. There were looks, smirks, scoffs, and nods from the vrykul, but Drekthac seemed immune to it all, save for returning any nod. It was as polite as a vrykul got, a positive acknowledgment, and he ensured he returned the favor.

The noise within only got louder as they moved, from echos to full cheering, until it sounded like standing in a stadium for battle with the crowds around you. There was hollering and cheering, singing and jeering, with the clatter of stone and steel mugs with wooden tables and iron plates. They passed the threshold of the feasting area, and Drekthac paused to stare.

Likely, everyone in Ymirheim had come. Tables upon colossal tables with colorful draping stretched down, seven lines, and reached back at least a hundred bustled with hulking vrykul, feasting and dancing and singing and fighting, while the white-bodied val'kyr flitting up and around in desperate attempts to keep the tables overladen with foods and the drinking horns topped. It helped that there were hundreds, at near equal amounts to the vrkyul themselves. At the left-most wall, five massive caskets held the ale and mead that the champions drank, and the val'kyr filled large pitchers in an endless line to return to the Ymirjar.

There were well over a thousand occupants, crammed into this one vrykul hall.

Maldrid overtook them then as she separated, and she hovered above Drekthac with a broad grin. "Find your seat and introduce yourself well, champion. I will find you." With a bow in the air, the turned and flapped hard to propel towards the casks and her sister val'kyr.

Drekthac was dressed in only his drake-skin clothing and his cloaks, with his one good sword over his shoulder. Looking to the vrykul, many were in similarly plain clothes, even in the brawls, though some were still strapped to the chin in Ymirjar armors. He resisted the urge to grab a hilt as he looked to Freydis and gestured with his chin towards the right.

To the tables they went, gathering attention all the while, until one wrestling pair landed on the stone floor before Drekthac, interrupting his path. They threw fists and elbows, grappling like they'd trained for it their whole lives, but frankly, they were in Drekthac's way. And he needed to introduce himself.

He grabbed the first by the collar of his leather armor, lifting him a good few feet from his opponent, and with his right fist, clocked him across the face and sent the vrykul rolling over the floor. Laughs and cheers rolled at that, as Drekthac caught a sudden strike from the opponent, a frost vrykul in woolen tunic and leggings. It took him a few seconds to shake off the last of his languid fatigue, and then Drekthac darted forward, pulling the arm under the vrykul and behind him, then locking it against his back.

The booted feet scrambled for hold on the ground, and Drekthac knew sheer mass would send him flying off if the vrykul managed. Before he could, Drekthac grabbed him by the tunic in his other hand, and collectively lifted the whole hulking humanoid off the ground, over his head, until even the boots couldn't even touch the ground with bent knees. More cheering from the Ymirjar, up until Drekthac hurled his opponent away from him and onto the end of the feasting table.

He wiped his hands as if dusting them as he continued to where he had seen a space large enough to fit him and Freydis comfortably. The table was much too large and dwarfed him easily, so Drekthac didn't bother sitting on the bench when he managed to get atop it. He noticed then that the deep blue table cloth before him wasn't just colorful as the rest – it was an Alliance war banner. And beside it, one of the Scarlet Onslaught, and the Horde, and Dalaran. They used the war banners of those they triumphed over as _table clothes!_

"A lousy host for guests, you lot are!" Drekthac roared at them, stomping his boots against the wood as Freydis sat. "When's the last time you found a champion of the small races, eh?"

Someone flung a metal disk at him, aiming for the throat, and Drekthac caught it in a hand and slammed it into the span before him on the table. It was a plate. Next, he reached for food, while the man beside him hollered something in the vrykul language to a nearby val'kyr.

Freydis opened her mouth to translate, but Drekthac understood the gist of the question. Literally, the man was asking what Drekthac had asked. The floating woman set her arms akimbo, careful not to spill her pitcher, while she thought, then yelled something back to him, her accent too heavy for Drekthac.

"Dwarf!" the man shouted at Drekthac, grinning like he won a prize. Drekthac gave him a stare, clearly unimpressed, until the vrykul shrugged and grabbed more food for himself.

"Fooking hooman!" a feminine voice addressed next, yelling from across the table. Drekthac saw a frost vrykul huntress there, her hair feathered with trophies and large tattoos taking up her right cheek. A cheeky grin was on her face. "He mean say last tiny rat be dwarf, but long so long go."

Gods, their Common was as good as Drekthac's Vrykul. He found himself laughing, giving her a nod before tearing into his own roasted boar. He nearly moaned, finding the meat juicy and tender as only the best cooks could manage.

"Hooman laugh be at Britta?" she demanded, eyes flashing. Her arm, bared to the shoulder, slammed an elbow on the table, revealing biceps the size of Drekthac's chest. "Wait see strong who laugh then! Fooking hooman!"

"_I want no blood black on shirt clean,"_ Drekthac returned in their own tongue, raising the empty mug he found waiting for him. _"You sound be like this."_

The vrykul around them laughed, and her eyes darkened considerably. The knife she had been using to tear open her meat was suddenly flung towards him, end over end, and reflex had Drekthac try catching it rather than dodge, knowing there were people behind him. He missed, and its teethed end dug into his left shoulder.

"Aha!" she shouted, triumphant, with her nearly white teeth – a rarity, in the vrykul world – gleaming in her grin.

Drekthac hardly reacted to the pain, flaring breath from his nostrils, and then he chucked his iron mug at her wide forehead. Britta's eyes widened just before it smacked her clean center, and the robust missile bounced back into the air, for Drekthac to catch again. He laughed once it was in his hand again; he hadn't done a trick like that since his childhood days.

Britta stared with large eyes, unmoving, while the Ymirjar around them couldn't contain their amusement. She lifted her hand to touch the blue skinned ridge, finding a line of blood where the rim had cut her. Drekthac saw a black drop of it sliding down the side of his cup, and he lifted it to give a lick over the line, then winked at her with the strong metallic taste of her blood in his mouth.

She blinked once at him. Her hand fell across her stomach then as she tilted her head back and roared a laugh. Drekthac's own free hand was still over the knife, where his wound throbbed and begged to flood him with combat-ready rage. Seeing her laugh so easily though, after the nearly humiliating counter, sent Drekthac into a fit of laughter of his own. Gods! Gods and gods! This was the world of the Ymirjar?

Maldrid appeared while he still laughed, filling his mug with her own pitcher now, a purple thing with pink marks over it. The orange bonfires and many torches lit the chamber rather well in a bronze glow. While he took his first drink, he felt her hand settle over the hilt of the knife and drive it out carelessly. He grunted, nearly snorting his drink, at the new lance of pain as the hole widened. Maldrid hesitated none in placing her hand over it though, and he saw three runes blossom into existence surrounding her hand.

The three red marks caught his attention for a long moment, until they slowly dissipated from the air and her hand moved. As his mind returned to him, he expected the usual throbbing there, only to realize the pain had vanished entirely. No burning fire, no unpleasant restitching of flesh – just gone, and the wound with it. Runic healing.

"To ah brother!" Britta shouted, still with blood leaking over her pretty face. An actual horn was in her hand, dripping with frothy fluid. "Wel-cahm home, Drekthac!"

From the rest, it was a mix of Common and Vrykul welcomes, and further out, those that noticed roared the same things, until most of the hall had echoed the greeting. Drekthac raised his own mug in response, and the noisy hall was replaced by the sound of hundreds of brutes guzzling down their alcohol.

The festivities picked back up quickly, as did the low roar of noise in their stone chamber. After her drink, still with froth on her upper lip, Britta pounded the wooden table with her palm, setting a beat, before raising her voice in song. It was in Vrykul, its tempo fast and the words clipped, and Drekthac realized it was one of the more humorous ones. Beside her, the two men also pounded at the beat and joined her in its words.

Something of a princess, a drake, and a shield-bearer. If Drekthac wasn't mistaken, the song was about the princess fighting the drake and the shield-bearer the captive? Vrykul songs, even in Common, were confusing enough already.

Still, it wasn't the lyrics that held his attention. Britta did, her voice and her throat. He recalled easily that knife throw, and the speed at which it had taken him. She was no pretty woman; she had won Valhalas same as him, a champion. Seeing his eye on her, the frost vrykul winked back, shouting the lyrics louder.

"Not going to drink?" Drekthac asked Freydis then, turning his attention to his companion. Maldrid had vanished quickly after the healing.

She had her face-mask back on, showing only her mouth to him as he so well knew. She shook her head. "Not here, in the Hall of Heroes. Only the Ymirjar may feast here."

One eye ticked at that. Drekthac enjoyed it when she drank. She got loud and bold. Feet braced, he reached up with his left hand and seized her shoulder, then yanked her down, so her head was low as his chest. Drekthac shoved his mug against her lips, tipping it down, while Freydis still flailed at being pulled over.

She actually took a sip, at least that which was pouring over her face, before her quick elbow took him in the hip, and Drekthac was flung clean off the bench he stood on. On the ground, Drekthac grinned up at her, lifting his mug, while Freydis' cool glare returned his look and she wiped her mouth. Mead had dripped onto her chest and between her breasts.

Drekthac wasn't sure what was allowed and what wasn't here, but he was sure someone would pummel their traditions into him when he slipped up. Down several seats, he saw one vrykul slapped a val'kyr's buttocks in passing, and when she turned sharply, he stole a kiss. She pushed away lightly, and he noticed her lips trying to not smile.

Good, so that was allowed at least.

On the bench again, Drekthac took his own kiss from Freydis, then resumed his feast. Even in the den of his own paradise, his mind couldn't help but recall their conversation before they had come here. He would take her as a Battle-maiden , certainly, but to assume control of the Lich King's compulsion... He couldn't bear the thought of her losing any part of herself. What val'kyr would dare knock the Lich King off his seat in his own dining hall?

As Drekthac began to fill up, and most of the other patrons concluded their meals in song and the occasional dance, he took a firmer look around him at the hall. He wondered to himself, _What now?_ Here he was, at the heart of the place he desired most, with whom he desired most, and he wondered what came next. He could war, he could feast, he could fuck – he'd even find challenge in getting any of the three here, if he wished. But even to a true warrior, there was more to life.

After he proposed the question to Freydis, with him now leaning his back against the table's edge to look out into the hall, she told him, "Whatever you wish, my liege. You are Ymirjar. Do you wish to blacksmith? We have the finest in the land eager to take in dedicated students. The finest archers in the land can teach even you to sharp-shoot at four hundred yards. If you are content with the ways of iron, there are those who seek to discover new recipes for better meals, and those that seek the greatest meads that will be poured here, to their brothers and sisters. You can learn to ride a proto-drake into battle, or to measure a house that would stand using the least wood."

Essentially, Ymirheim was a capital city, only composed of champions, and it seemed as if coin had little value or need here. He could refine his skills over and over, and learn knew ones, always improving himself – and he could relax, resign himself to a quieter longhouse further up the mountain, to remain in contemplative silence with a pleasant woman for company. The world was his.

And he was not alone. All around him were brothers and sisters. He had been called Jotunheim when he had lived there, included in the name of the clan, but they hadn't been true kin with him. Strangely, he felt it here, that connection. Some might hate him for what his presence meant, like those that had been slain at his Valhalas, but for the most part, this was his people.

He noticed one val'kyr drawing an unusual amount of attention. He certainly didn't remember this one flying about beforehand either. She wore no armor, not even a face-mask, though a blindfold covered her white eyes from the people. Platinum hair, either silver or pale straw, was tied back into ponytail. Without armor, her excessively feminine form was rather visible, especially with how it jostled about with every turn and flap of her wings. And the men couldn't turn away.

When this val'kyr turned away from him, Drekthac noticed she was wearing a thong in place of the usual val'kyr bottoms, and his eyebrows rose at how... displayed she was. Her comely smile, the fine arches of her eyebrows, and the seductive drawl of her voice only heightened her effect on the people around her.

_Well I'll be. A val'kyr bombshell,_ Drekthac noted, his lip turning up in a smile. At her first turn though, when she first demonstrated her thong, he gave a contemplative look at Freydis where she sat. She didn't even glance at him, or to whom he looked, as she replied firmly, "Not a chance in Hela."

Drekthac sighed, then spotted his black-winged Maldrid hovering nearby. His lips pursed thoughtfully again as he imagined her prancing about in that set-up. She had, as promised, been serving him quite well.

Freydis finally turned, sitting with her legs now away from the table, and she joined him in looking at the new val'kyr. "That is Hilda. If the val'kyr had a queen, she would be it. Among the runemasters present, she is the greatest. Feel honored if she deems you worthy enough to serve even a plate of food. I encourage you to do the impossible and get her into a bed."

"An Ice Queen, eh?" Drekthac asked, his voice gruff.

"Appropriate title," she replied, smiling. "Like me, she was Hyldnir, and she ascended at the Valkyrion into service. She is the only val'kyr raised by the Lich King to work as handmaiden, rather than Arbiter or taskmistress."

"Any reason for that?"

"Traditionally, Val'kyr were elected. They were vrykul, not these winged spirits you see now. They needed to be the best runeworkers around, to heal and revive the dead, in order to serve the Ymirjar. The Val'kyr, the group, were women of great honor, and beauty, and their service to the Ymirjar covered other fields as well. When the Lich King began raising us at the Valkyrion and calling us "val'kyr," we had control over the dead and healing, and such power, but I cannot serve a champion like Maldrid can. Those not pressed into immediate services work as Arbiters, for Valhalas. Hilda, however, can service – better than even the Val'kyr from before the Lich King."

As if drawn by their conversation of her, Hilda's eyeless gaze fell upon Drekthac and Freydis, where they watched her, and her smile turned predatory. Drekthac felt his lower spine trying to tense at the look, and the casual grace of the approach, but he resisted it. Even if this Hilda wanted to fuck like animals, he doubted he could go another round, after Freydis.

"Catch your tongue, Baelin," Freydis whispered beneath her breath then. "A slight against her is taken as a slight against all val'kyr."

Him? Catch his tongue? That was a plan doomed to failure.

"Well, well, well," Hilda said by greeting, her words rolling over her tongue smoother than Drekthac thought possible from a vrykul. "The one they call the Immortal. Baelin Drekthac. Your dear Freydis was talking about you here before you even dreamed of Valhalas."

"Hilda the Silvertongue. I hear you have quite the reputation yourself," he returned, resisting the urge to drawl. Couldn't be caught imitating her.

Those lovely lips rose in a beautiful, if mocking, smile. "Flattery might get you somewhere, champion. I am curious how you... measure up again your brethren."

Well this conversation turned sexual fairly quickly. Dekthac thought to turn its course. "I am here, aren't I? Claimed a val'kyr on my first day to boot."

"So word has passed," she purred, turning her head to his companion. "Among many other things, that has intrigued me. But such is a conversation for another day." She looked back at him, her smile in full bloom. "What say you of our city, hero? Are you lonely without your kind?"

"Oh, I'm with my kind," he growled. For Freydis' sake, he took the challenge out of it. "For the city, we'll see tomorrow how many skulls don't crack when I enter the battlegrounds."

"Oh yes, we all know combat here," she returned, and she drifted aside, body nearly lascivious in its motions. Leaning forward, she said, "What of the rest? Do the women please you? What will you take in your time here? Has anyone caught your eye so early?"

The coy tone clearly referenced herself, in a sort of self-amused manner. Drekthac snorted. "Been considering some trophies, aye, but I figure I'll learn to settle first." Whoops.

But Hilda was not insulted, only further amused. "You do interest me, little Baelin. But for now, you are like a child among us, who will use big words and make loud actions. I long for the day I see depth within you."

"The day I feel the depth within _you,_ I dare you to repeat those words." There, now Freydis was ruffled, but he wouldn't be here if he couldn't deal with what he'd been dished.

Still, Hilda only laughed, and she waved down Freydis. "Calm yourself, Arbiter. One does not get insulted by the tough words of children." Her face looked to him again, nearly gloating if she hadn't been so refined. "Many have tried, human. None have succeeded. Apart from our words here, I do look forward to seeing the one called Dragon in the battlegrounds. You may find a few of your kin have earned the title "Dragonslayer" for good reason. Or, you may surprise me, as the Ymirjar often do."

Her words were oddly neutral, Drekthac noticed. Goading him on and easing him back in one statement. Testing his character in different states of challenge and praise. The queen of the val'kyr? Perhaps she will prove herself of that in his time here.

With a smile of his own, splitting the strong features of his face, Drekthac told her, "You and I will get along real nicely here, darlin'." He raised his mug to her. "May the blessings of Hela keep you strong."

To a living warrior, such would be insulting. Hela, the goddess of the dead, where those not worthy of Valhal went. Their keeper. To a val'kyr, a spirit technically classified as undead, though they kept a physical form... Hilda's attention seemed to tighten on him, pensive, until she nodded once, a smirk finding its way on her face. "May the night treat you well, Drekthac. Feast, sing, fuck. Tomorrow, we will see you in action."

Hilda turned away from him and drifted on, to speak to other champions. Her words were familiar with them, though now she spoke in fluid Vrykul, the change between languages seamless.

Behind Drekthac, he heard a woman shout in astonishment, "Fooking hooman!"

Thus was Drekthac's first day in Ymirheim, his true home. Certainly, he felt his life would never grow boring or complacent here. The words of Freydis, her pact, remained festering in the back of his mind, while a dozen swords remained before him, poised for eager bloodshed. At his side stood two val'kyr, the Arbiter and the handmaiden, and outside their walls crawled a new race of darklings from somewhere off-world. He'd study that head better tonight, he told himself.

It didn't fit the halls, nor the commotion around him, but Drekthac raised his mug and began a Death Song, one separate from the one sang this morning.

"Since I have appointed

To proffer Aman-Thul's Breast-Sea,

The War-God's Verse, to Thorimsteinn;

The Tree of Swords so wills it.

"Thou, fierce War-Staff, maintainedst

Maugre two kinds, they borders

With heroes' kin, where the ravens

Starved not; keen-hearted art thou."

* * *

AN: For now, I just want everything posted. Later on, I'm likely going to revise the "Death Songs" into something more suiting - though really, I think they are a nice example of where all of WoW's vrykul / viking / nordic fantasy (elves, dwarves - especially WoW's earthen) found its roots. The last one here especially, I'm going to adapt later into a sort of prophesy about Sin. "Tree of Swords" and "War-Staff" referring to _Shed'Beshal_ and _Shed'lahk_ respectively.


	13. Chapter 11: Ranger-General

Chapter 11

_Ranger-General_

* * *

X Ranger X

When Thomas woke, it came with immediate awareness. It was a natural waking, not in the urgency of an attack, and he noticed it came without the tired aches and stress his body had carried for the previous weeks. _A full night of rest..._ the thought came with some surprise, but he was suddenly glad for it, appreciative of Genveera's advice.

He recalled too where they camped and the state of his people, but the shock was gone, and the sorrow was fading. It was no longer a burden to carry; life moved on.

The sound of a someone else breathing, with the faint pulse of a sleeping heart rate, almost came as a surprise to him. He had forgotten about Snow's presence, and he hadn't thought she would stay through the morning. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who desperately needed the rest. Opening his eyes, he could see the full length of her pale back, slender as she was, with a hint of her buttocks disappearing beneath his blanket.

Thomas began to feel torn over whether he should regret the night with her, when he had been starting a relationship with Sarrine, or appreciative, for he knew he so desperately needed the comfort. He knew he was grateful now that she was still here, as his hand found her hip and stroked the warm, pale skin.

One thing he hadn't missed though was the tangled mass of brown where her head should have been, laid over the formerly white hair. He could feel from his touch through her that the magic of the glamor had slipped from her as she slept. This, whomever she was, was the true face of the woman behind Snow. The only ranger who fit the bill was Flaerie, yet that reserved woman maintained short hair, and her skin was many shades darker.

Snow woke shortly into the contact, giving a cute hum and arching her flawless back. After a moment, she began to turn over, revealing a wide smile on her lips. Pretty green eyes found his, giving Thomas the full view of Snow's real face finally. She began to utter a word, he was nearly certain the start of the Thalassian word for "Shadow," then froze, eyes widening in start.

With a short meep of surprise, the woman bolted up, only the grace of her race keeping her from falling over instead, and she immediately leaped over him and towards the door. Her hand swung up between steps, he saw, and the veiled gown left the floor to wrap around her as she ran. At the tent flap, a word of magic changed the shape of the article, and glamor was applied over her, but she was already outside before the spells finished.

Still lying down with his head supported by one arm, Thomas smiled at the abrupt exit. Her face was committed to memory, though he doubted he would ever see it around the camp. It was some time later that he actually followed her up and got ready for the big day.

XxX

"_So what can you tell us of these daemons,"_ Thomas asked Ysanna, Lorrin, and the other blood elves from Stonard. They sat in a circle on the flat blocks of Stormwind, somewhere in the ruins of Trade District, while around them, Donvorei, his men, and other recruited help dashed about, trying to excavate goods from the ashes. The auction house especially had been a figurative gold mine. The bank, more literal.

With them were also a few rangers, Raeloth, and some officers. Strange though was the absence of Genveera.

"_They are many, and their strength varies,"_ a magister, Sarthas, replied. _"It was obvious for us on the walls, as no matter how direct a hit was, some just wouldn't go down as easily as others."_

"_A few hours before we reached your fort, I saw something that might have been one of these. It looked like a... corrupted mage-eater. Black and strange, however. Is that somewhere along the lines?"_ Thomas followed.

Sarthas seemed the one to talk to, as one with the most experience. The others only nodded along with his words. _"Exactly so. I'm not one for demonology, but Vessa is. She profiled mage-eaters, imps, even eredar among the daemons, but these are not the demons we know. They are the shadows of demons, summoned from burning pits and abyssal realms, not from a place as known as the Twisting Nether. They know only viciousness, strength, and malice. Even the weakest cannot be controlled by a warlock. And among them, there are those that cannot be identified in demonology terms."_

"_Shadows of demons,"_ Thomas repeated, nodding. _"For their color, yes? Black is universal?"_ There were more nods. _"That is worrisome. We all know how countless the demons of the Nether are. We can only hope whatever is bringing these daemons here doesn't possess similar numbers. Tell me about the differences though. These daemons that do not have the images of demons."_

Sarthas shook his head, reluctant, until Ysanna's partner Lorrin piped in, _"I'll tell you then! These fiends haven't any eyes. Hard to mistake the usual fel green glow of them, but these things move like literal shadows, unable to be tracked properly by any eye. I was content remaining in my muggy home during the nights, but just once I tried tracking these daemons using the ley lines."_

"Lorrin," Ysanna warned.

"_He has a right to know!"_ the man snapped. His partner's lips pursed, but she didn't pursue her point. _"The ley lines, Ranger-General, are a complex weave of arcane pathways that run the planet. They are overseen by the Aspect of Magic, and only he knows the full web of them. It is through these pathways that we make our portals, connecting access points to access points. Stonard had such a point, Stormwind's Mage Tower did – and it has outlasted the stone walls, clearly. Any mage can learn to use the ley lines, but for those who master the field, we can do much more._

"_Since death of the last Aspect, Malygos, the lines have been volatile and uncharted. Open to use and abuse for all sorts of arcane beings, but the few blues left have been keeping up a firm watch, until recent times. Among other things, that's given me access to the ley lines for personal use."_

"_To us,"_ Ysanna added, solemnly. Thomas understood the forbidden nature of what Lorrin was trying to explain, and her reluctance.

"_Now,"_ continued the portal master, _"I won't go into every detail of what my tracking entitled, but I found very quickly that I wasn't alone in the travel of it. The daemons are using it for travel – not all, but enough. I severed a few connections as I went (you know, cutting them in half as they stepped between sides of a portal), but then the one I was following stopped its night flight and opened a new path into the ley lines. I traced the ends of its portals, only to find myself ripped out of my travels and flung back into my body."_

The man paused to bat his forehead with a handkerchief. Thomas noticed the pallid color his skin had become, now dotted with beads of sweat. His green eyes though were vacant, turned upon the memory. _"These daemons are not simple spell-weavers, Ranger-General. Swifter than I, a portal master, they turned me on my ass and opened a pathway into my chambers, where I sat. It opened a portal elsewhere from a ley line access point, from the hot spot in Stonard._

"_And from its shimmering window, I could see my prey, now my hunter. I cannot well describe its shape, but I can describe my terror. As quickly as I could, I locked the portal down, preventing travel, and even now its mocking laughter, like the deep brass horns of war, haunts my sleep. What I could see of it through, through those murky depths and in the height of my horror, was an alien head, ribbed like the eredar, but where the eyes should have been, ugly gouge lines scarred around empty sockets. But it could see! With sightless eyes, it stared right at me, lips peeled in that horrific smile, until my body shook like the leafs of fall. It... it..."_

His recounting ended there, as he ran the handkerchief over his face again, and he shook himself from his trance. Ysanna was touching his wrist, though Lorrin seemed not to notice. At his silence, she said, _"A portal without ley line access is a highly irregular and noticeable thing – a movement of the ley lines themselves – and I had felt it immediately. By my arrival, Lorrin, even in the midst of this, managed to seal the rift shut, and together we shifted the line back into place. After the fact, I concluded that it managed the portal by tracing Lorrin to his point of entry. I believe, and hope, that the daemons do not have such ability as to open a portal anywhere as they will."_

"_That which I saw was not a daemon,"_ Lorrin jolted back into the conversation, suddenly vehement. _"It was a Sightless daemon. They are different; stronger, more resilient, intelligent, and blessed with such dark powers. The sightless eyes are the marker; it was not an isolated encounter."_

"_Sightless,"_ Thomas tested the word, considering it. In Common, he repeated, "Sightless..." A name for their enemy. A Sightless could have been responsible for the slaughter outside the Dark Portal, yet the mage-eater had been a regular daemon. It was a sobering marker of how many the enemy possessed.

"Ranger-General Thomas," a masculine voice called, thick with a Thalassian accent.

Thomas looked up for Jerath, knowing the voice, only to see a pole impale the ash before him. He paused, scanning it and the banner it bore, while his friend leaned on the splintered wood. "I discovered this posted outside the sundered bridge, facing the forest. It is too pristine to have been here since the razing of Stormwind. I'd say it was very deliberately placed following, as a marker of conquest."

"And the tracks? Do they lead into the forest?" Thomas asked. It was reflex to continue conversation in the language presented to him.

One thing he always appreciated with this man was his ability as a ranger. There would be no question that Jerath had seen the tracks and followed them within caution, that he knew every detail already of the area. He was superior to even Thomas in this regard.

"The tracks lead north, into the mountains. The footprints are gone, but the taint of magic in the soil will remain for some time. They seemed very careful not to step into the woods."

Finally some good news. It had Thomas' lips turn up in a smile, and he nodded to the man before looking back to the banner. The others stood to also take a look, beginning to speculate:

"_It can't be some kind of target, there's no base."_

"_I'd place it as a marker of similar meaning. Stormwind was a target, now it is ashes."_ That one was Raeloth.

"_Or a sigil. The marks are finely done, but I'd guess it as the symbol of the enemy. Their flag."_

"_A white flag, with three black circles? That is the most childish image I've ever heard. It is clearly a marker, as the commander says."_

Thomas touched its edges, feeling along the smooth fray of it. White-dyed frostweave, by feel, with the thin fabric gently contorting into folds in the light breeze. The circles were immaculate, without imperfection, spaced nearly – but not quite – inside each other much like a bullseye. A banner of the daemons. _Sightless..._

His raised hand interrupted their continued musings. He found himself nodding, understanding and appreciating the clever truth of the banner. This foe was not at all like the barbaric orcs with their brutal banners. They were very deliberate, unique, with attention to fine detail. And intelligent enough.

"_Gentlemen,"_ he started, drawing in their attention further. _"Behold the Sightless Eye, the driving symbol of the daemons. Indeed, this is their flag."_ It was not just some bullseye with no pupil – no, it was an eye with a white pupil. A sightless eye.

There was a quiet moment of consideration as each listened to his explanation. They began to nod along with him, finding his own conclusions. To Jerath, Thomas asked, _"Where is the Swan? I would have her also see this."_

The blood elf glanced up into the crowds of Donvorei's workers, for not even a second, then looked back. _"She's about two hundred yards out and coming here, tucked between the canal bed."_

Murmurs from the other warriors and officers around them – Thomas, amused, could hear the marvel at Jerath's ability – as he nodded his thanks. Someone, it seemed, had an especially late wake up.

One of the officers, a Blood Knight – Thomas thought his name was Flenadar – mentioned, _"The Green Army needs its symbol still. We should take their flag and paint the iris green, make it after our eyes. The Exilee has such a strong cadre of rangers, including the Ranger-General himself, I think it'd make a fine symbol and a finer point to these daemons."_

"_Huh, the Shadow has green eyes too. Never noticed before,"_ someone mentioned, picked between the following murmur by Thomas as they considered the proposal. Such would be to issue a challenge to these daemons. He liked it, but he knew better than to risk incitement of them. There was more than his own life to consider.

Genveera was greeted upon arrival, and she was quick to notice the flag, staring at it with shrouded curiosity. Raeloth explained its origins and Thomas' theory on it, and she placed her agreement with him. The blond ranger stopped beside Thomas, arms crossing in her consideration, and as she did, he picked up a faint whiff of sex clinging to her, hidden among the leathers of her armor, the dusts and swamps of their travels, and more. Morning now, her green eyes were without the glow of mana, assuming she had fed the night before.

It went without saying that Jerath also noticed, but it was only when he connected the lingering scent on Thomas himself to that of Genveera that his blond eyebrows rose. As Thomas had realized the previous night with Snow, there wasn't such a connection, and he gave a very subtle shake of his head when Jerath's keen eyes fell upon him. The ranger shrugged.

Personally, Thomas didn't know what to think of Genveera and her taking some nameless lover to bed, but he knew it wasn't his business.

The banner was taken from its pole and given to an officer to have painted, once Thomas decided he'd like to see the end result. Before their meeting disbanded, for the new blood elves to catch up on the events of the last few years for the Sunfury and the marches of the Exilee, Lorrin wanted to mention that he noticed most of the Sightless portals originated at or were bound to Northrend. For such a barren and now unimportant place, he found it suspicious.

Thomas nodded as it confirmed his own suspicions. _"That banner too is "_frostweave,"_ found only up in the arctic too. When we march for war, we would do well to begin there."_

Lorrin's later mutter of, _"I fucking hate the cold,"_ as he walked away was ignored. He had no way of knowing Thomas could still his whispers at thirty yards distance.

That left Thomas with the rangers. Sarrine was not among them; he was glad for it, unable to face her in good conscious after the previous night. He wanted to wash away the scent of Snow and sex before the confrontation. From those he did see though, excluding Genveera, they carried new daggers at their sides. One for each, bearing blackened leather grips and smooth elven steel hilts. They were standardized.

He asked to see one, adding, _"So you have found a name for yourselves, have you?"_ Jerath did not perform grand gestures or tricks when drawing and offering his dagger, hilt first. Thomas took it in his right hand and turned it over a few times. The blade itself was of similar metal, tinged like a dark grey steel, and still reflected light as if was polished. The finely etched runes went from the underside of the thin guards down under the leather, blocking an enchanter from reading them.

"_Ashblades. _Or Ashblades," Jerath said, giving both translations.

Upon noticing Genveera's gaze upon it, he offered it for her to see, asking, _"Not for you?"_

"_I was preoccupied when they met,"_ she explained. There was a palpable tension between her and the dubbed Ashblades at the reminder. After turning it about and giving it a swing, Genveera nodded as she returned the blade to Jerath. _"Finely balanced. It sings in the wind well. A worthy weapon."_

Thomas tried to drag attention away from the schism by saying, _"I hope you realize that by taking a place as my private guard, you are excluded from the usual missions I or Raeloth would send you on. They will have to be passed on now to the rogues and assassins."_

"_Yet when you rush headlong into your usual trouble, you will have little choice but to keep us along,"_ Loraeoth countered, throwing a playful twist on the words. Thomas huffed a laugh and shook his head, looking up at the ceaseless scrambling of Donvorei's men. It would be hours before they dug out all the wealth and supplies Stormwind had housed, if they could at all.

To the rangers present, he asked lightly, _"How angry do you think Meyanna, Raeloth, and the rest would get if I left into the forest now to bring my mentor here?"_

"_You know the human expression "chewing stones?""_ Jertah mentioned, his words much clearer in his native tongue. _"Angry enough to chew through mithril."_

Thomas laughed, listening as Genveera spoke, _"It is good that you won't though, as such would leave the camp and Donvorei nearly defenseless in your absence."_

Her words had him sigh, and he nodded. At least she was not one of the Ashblades; he had plans for the Swan when they reached the enemy.

XxX

The sun had begun its descent once the Exilee finally began to move towards the forest of Azeroth. It was no easy travel, now laden with nearly a hundred carts and the great stone bridge crumbled to the water below. It took a few minutes for the craftmen to levitate some of the blocks back into a thin, arcane-enforced bridge for them, and then they passed the mountains of blackened rubble that were once part of the outer wall.

At the forest though, Thomas encouraged them to song, while he and the Ashblades took to the head of their forces. The elves' spirits elevated, and the horrors of the world were forgotten then in the return to nature. They all noticed when the forest rose up in song in turn, from the chirp of birds to the excited rustling of trees.

"_You should not draw such attention to us,"_ Ysanna warned as they marched. Her arms were folded tight over her blue robes, and her eyes were leery of the trees around them.

Thomas only smiled at her concerns. _"That is exactly what I want. From here to the ends of Elwynn, and even through some parts of Duskwood, the forest exalts in our presence here. Anyone that can feel such stirrings will know that the children of the wood have come and will rejoice. A true ranger will also be able to ask the forest where we are."_

"_And the daemons?"_

"_They seem unnatural enough to never notice even the playful twists of the wind, and if they are close enough to hear our song – when they should not be in this forest at all – then I doubt silence would help five hundred travelers escape their attention."_

From the side, he noticed Sarrine face him. _"So you can feel the forest too then? Without an affinity to it or magic?"_

Thomas lifted his hand, feeling the small swath of wind curl over it, seeing the twirl of a caught leaf in its passing. He smiled and looked to the trees, where a small congregation of birds was following them, landing on the nearby branches to join in the songs. The young trees bent at their trunks, only a bit but noticeable, while the old ones groaned their weary limbs in their own acknowledgment.

"_No, I cannot feel it, but the forest sings back, if one knows how to listen. It is a living thing, and its ancient emotions grow so riled. I sometimes wonder how anyone can not notice."_ Sarrine smiled back at him, then turned her own attention to the forest. Thomas added, _"Watch with me now for the presence of another. If I recall well, he has a preference for the hollows beneath roots."_

They passed fifteen miles into the forest, far removed now from any civilization. Goldshire was now miles to their south west, as they had diverted from the road nearly from the start. Thomas did notice that the bandit and gnoll problems had been dealt with in his absence to Outland; one way or another, they had been dealt with.

Thomas stopped them where they were, recognizing the old playgrounds of his youth. This was where his mentor had taken him, for their games. The sun, vanished long since behind the trees of the west, had only an hour left of any discernible light, the sky already darkening to deep indigo to the east. Above, the spattering of puffy clouds began to assume tints of pink and orange, while the forest below had shadows creeping with larger presence.

"_Shall we break camp here, Ranger-General?"_ Raeloth asked, joining him in the center of the rocky clearing Thomas had moved to.

The one human in the army shook his head slowly. _"Just water and rest for now. I'll decide in a few minutes if this is where we will stay the night."_

"_Yes, sir,"_ the commander agreed, turning to pass the orders along to the officers. Before he could depart to rest himself, Thomas added, _"Commander, forgive me for being unprofessional, but I'll need to take leave right now. Thirty minutes at most. The rangers will come with me."_

Brows furrowed, Raeloth turned back to him. He was in his usual stance, with a hand on the hilt of his sword, as he asked, _"Sir?"_

Thomas hesitated, then paced to the side as the attention of the Ashblades and Genveera fell upon him. At a particular tree, with a single low branch as thick as Thomas that stretched horizontally for several yards, Thomas stopped. His foot dragged over the smooth dirt there, separate from the usual grass.

"_Stormwind was never my home. It was the city of my people, my race, and a powerful symbol, but this here was my home. I slept right here, in this spot, under this tree, more nights than I have in a tent in all my years following. I have come full circle, and it is my wish, as just Thomas the orphan, to revisit my youth."_

The commander gave a slow nod, settling back on his heels in a more relaxed manner. _"If that is your wish, Ranger-General. I'm sure the lot of us will manage a few minutes without your watch. Bring back some food if you will though. We haven't added meat to the stores in the last few days."_

With mutual salutes, both men left to their respective tasks. Thomas sprinted up the rocky wall in short leaps, and at the top he found his careful balance sustaining him as he ran along the rim of the cliff. Below, the rangers followed, keeping him in sight as they all ran.

A quarter mile down, Thomas turned from his place and jumped from the cliff edge, landing perfectly onto a reaching arm of an old tree, where he found a handhold on the branch above and swung himself up. Realizing, the rangers began to climb. From the next branch, Thomas saw the second leap to the next tree, no longer as distant as it had seemed in his youth, and he made it in easy steps, smiling at the memory.

Foot over foot, he moved along this curved branch to the heart of the oak, then climbed the next branch which speared over the trees to the south, away from the rocky wall. At the slope down, he stopped walking and began to slide down the branch, muscles carefully braced for each bump and change of the trunk, before its lower lip tucked upward again. For that, he planted one foot on the knob and jumped, from the tree into the green canopy beyond.

Laughing now, Thomas realized the rangers could not easily keep up with him, adapting well to the terrain but not knowing it as intimately as he did. Jerath was sprinting over the tree tops where the branches should not have been able to support his weight. He would not be behind for long. The green cushion caught Thomas' fall, with the one firm branch caught in a fist and swinging him through the leaves. His hand slipped free, emitting him to free fall once again.

Thomas saw the next branch approaching fast, and his knees tucked to his chest as he realized he fell faster and had longer limbs now. His weight carried him over and past, and his body sprang free to grab firmly the following branch. He spun up it, and once on his feet again, he leapt to the left-reaching branch and continued again.

The thrill was there, his actions guided by memory in a dream-like trance. This was the forest of his youth, where he had learned all the tricks and techniques of rangers, where he had mastered acrobatics and learned a world of no obstacles. Where one could run free. This was where he belonged.

The tree-path led back to the rocky cliff, only higher up it now as the land sloped up, and Thomas performed the leap back onto the cliff, glancing only briefly back for signs of his pursuit. He saw crimsons, golds, and moving browns through the leaves and nodded to himself, then jumped to climb up the rocky wall again, only halfway, and jumped into the towering ancient – the largest tree in Elwynn – at its own midway. The branches here could present two feet widths of flat tops to run down, but the space between them above and below were much further than usual trees.

At the center, handholds had been carved into the trunk, fit for smaller hands than his, and he pulled himself up, fist over fist and foot over foot. His fingers burned at the grip, but he was unrelenting. The carved path ended at another wide branch, this one to the right – and towards the forest again – and Thomas finally slowed his pace to walk down it.

The leafy canopy had regrown since his time here, leaving him fighting through the younger branches to step past the blockade, before he was outside the growth and along to the forest. He had seven more feet of branch length before it was too brittle for human weight. At that end, he stopped, planting one foot on a severed knob, and looked out into the forest bathed in sunset.

No matter how begotten the world was, the forest remained, pristine as he remembered. The ashes of Stormwind were of no issue here, in his home. Putting his fingers to his mouth, he performed a particular whistle, that of a bluejay giving the call to its family. He performed the sound three times, then listened with all his ears could.

Ten seconds passed without any return, until... just there, a call. Distant, a mile out, a sound like the family's call back. Perhaps. It was too faint even for his ears.

The first ranger arrived then. It was unusual for Jerath to make any sound when moving, yet at the pace Thomas had forced him at, it was no surprise to hear the small tap of his last footfall. Beyond, Thomas could hear the rustle of leaves and grass and that of feet against bark as the other rangers sought to reach him. Nodding to himself, Thomas stepped back to where the bearded man was standing, sharing a nod with him, and together they called the attention of the rest as they climbed down instead.

On the ground, all of the rangers crouched around Thomas, their breathing light. He gave no words now, no sounds that could be tracked. With a raised hand, he gave them the signal to hunt as rangers do. They took to the trees together, calling shadows around themselves. They were in two groups, Thomas and Genveera; he would be glad to have Jerath lead in combat situations, but the man, no matter how skilled, was always quick to decline. Jerath said he had led as a Bloodwarder, but he hated command.

Though not spaced far from Genveera's squad, the distinction was clear. With Thomas were Jerath, Velanee, Sarrine, Farron, Dor'rath, and Jon'ah. They spread further apart in their hunt to cover more area, until Thomas had to rely entirely on Genveera to watch her own squad, losing track of it. His eyes were everyone in this forest of his youth, and he recalled the aged feelings of being outmatched by his foe, even in familiar woods. He was looking to the same obvious places and ignoring the same places he had as a child.

Jon'ah went down.

Thomas' heart stopped in the instant he did, as the presence of his ally vanished completely, without warning or sound. Jerath stopped too, his faint trickle of blended shadow growing still and vanishing from perception. Brows furrowed, Thomas watched the area, but he knew his only choice was to wait. As much as it pained him, his team would become the bait, and he would strike exactly where the next one vanished. He hoped the desperate hope that the assailant was who he thought it was, and not a daemon.

His breath was held in the tense moment. It passed, and he held again, while those around him sought to stand still again. His foe was too clever for such a game, thorough in their hunt of his team. Genveera's presence had been lost entirely as they remained locked down. Likely, Jon'ah's body was bound and hidden, to escape their find. Everyone twitched at the sound of a stone rustling a bush, revealed to be Dor'rath who threw it. The rogue-like man only shrugged at their combined looks.

Shaking his head, Thomas had Dor'rath cloak himself in shadows again, and they moved. He was ready this time, standing in the very center, with each member of his squad within reach of a Shadow Step. Thomas found his eyes closed more often than open as they dove up and down trees, across branches and over fallen logs and rock cropping. His perceptions of motion, when spread like this, worked much better without visual sensation to override it.

There was a moment where Sarrine flinched, and Thomas was upon her area in an instant, crouched beside her with his dagger ready, but it had only been a sleeping owl. Fortunately, Shadow Stepping did not break Thomas' stealth, and he retreated to his place in the center. The others moved when he did, tracking him like he did them. His eyes, when opened, looked to odd shadows under the roots of certain trees, if the cavity could house a man – and often if it couldn't.

Farron was missing. It took Thomas a second to realize his total presences was lacking one, and he ran a name count to be sure. When it was clear to him that light-hearted man was no longer among them, Thomas gestured to where Jerath was. Though the ranger could not be seen, he got the warning, vanishing from Thomas' perception as he stopped moving. A few seconds later, as they continued forward, Jerath erupted from his place of hiding to fire his bow at a tree ten yards to their collective left.

Thomas caught the movement of a shadow, jumping from the arrow, but even as he began to step towards it, his senses caught the whistle of wind behind him, the sharp intake of a woman's breath, and he Shadow Stepped to Velanee on the gamble of a millisecond of recognition. His dagger caught another in a parry, seeing the blunt end reaching first for the silver head of hair. So their enemy was sapping its victims. Thomas' other dagger struck forward, into the blur of his opponent, and it danced back, flickering once into the shape of a dark humanoid before vanishing again.

Thomas clutched onto the shadows as well, and he pursued, finding another clash of steel as he struck. There was a flurry of moment in the next instant, and their daggers chimed like jingling of a coin sack as the exchange. Clearly, this enemy was also a rogue or a ranger, and it retreated back just as Thomas found his quick-bursting stores of energy hit bottom. The presence of the enemy vanished right as Jerath reached him, with Velanee aiming now to the shadows around them. Her fast heartbeat was audible to him in that moment.

Reviewing the confrontation in his head, Thomas' mind finally was allowed to run on more than instinct. It recalled the distinct twists of the blades he had squared against, showed him that how Thomas had moved his own hands to prevent being disarmed was a trick he had learned from experience against those exact twists. They were familiar, and known. It at least confirmed enough to Thomas for him to drop the shadows, falling into a wary stance but easily visible.

"_Stand down,"_ Thomas ordered. He slid a foot forward, and then the other, inching along without losing his form. The others were not quick to listen, each clutching their black daggers in one hand as a reminder of their Ashblade status, so he repeated, _"Stay back. I know his tricks."_

By now, his foe would recognize him as well. Few enough humans knew Thalassian, and the distinctness of his voice and accent would be enough. Those the leather face-mask Thomas wore was different from the one this foe had last seen, he would know who lied behind it.

Years later, Thomas knew better now than to partake in showy knife tricks and the like, but more important was knowing how it would rile up this enemy. Thomas flung both daggers up into the air, giving them a fast twirl so he could track their sound, and swung his bow down from his shoulder as he drew and arrow, then nocked it. With no hesitation, it was loosed into a distant hollow of roots. A form quickly dove out, vanishing even as it rolled to the side, and Thomas fired a second arrow at its position. He missed, but the enemy dropped his own hold on the shadows, revealing himself.

The smile that had been building up on Thomas' lips vanished at the sight of his opponent. The long blond hair tied was now back into a strict tail, no longer loose for the wind to play with, and gone were the ranger regalia leathers in favor of the dark marks of an assassin, a killer. Certainly, this man was an elf, but the trademark eyes showed not blue or green but were hidden behind a strip of cloth, blinding him or hiding the sockets of eyes gone. The tension clung to his shoulders, this foe, and the grip on his own daggers did not waver. He came again.

Thomas caught the falling daggers and met the attack. Their feet danced to keep them afloat in safe positions, then struck in wicked kicks and sweeps. Their arms blocked each other more often than their blades met each other, until a tangle of limbs had them in a grapple. On reflex, Thomas wanted to lose his daggers again to get his hands on his opponent, but old words echoed in his head. One leg found the ground, catching all their weight, and Thomas twisted himself out of his opponent's grip. A serpentine kris sought his chest, but Thomas kept moving, getting a hand on the ground – now abandoning that dagger – and between arm and leg, he kept hold on the elf and flung them both over his head in a high arc before slamming them into the grass again.

Turning, Thomas stuck his remaining dagger at the throat of his dazed foe, demanding, _"Enough!"_ He noticed that the kris was already in position to gut him, but the hand held back, leaving them in a stalemate.

"_Know my tricks, do you?"_ a quiet, solemn voice asked from chapped, pale lips. _"So bold in your absence,_ Young Jack?"

Thomas finally did smile, relieved, but his joy seemed caught in a net of unease. _"I managed a tie, didn't I?"_ He moved his dagger away from the slender throat.

The elf did not remove his kris.

"_And now you are dead,"_ he whispered.

Thomas' abs clenched at the words, even his relief dissipating. He vanished not just from sight but entirely from the tangle of limbs, leaving the elf clutching air, and then Thomas reappeared behind him. With a short growl, Thomas' left arm slipped under the elf's, restraining it, while his hand slid up to yank back on the ponytail to present the throat to the dagger in his right hand. He held the winning hand now, stomping on the elf's fist at the first twitch, grinding his soft-soled boot until the fingers uncurled from the hilt of the kris.

Pig-skin colored lips peeled back in a grimace, but a fierce smile was there. With more life than before, he said, _"Good! Good, Jack. You have grown since our last parting, learned beyond that which you gleaned from me. You would not survive here otherwise."_

Thomas' hold was unyielding, even leaning his weight onto the elf's back to keep him unable to slip out like a snake. The other rangers encircled them, looking uneasy. Thomas asked, _"How long have you been fighting?"_ He did not know that grey-black uniform, but he knew its meaning. _"And your eyes..."_

"_Nearly three weeks now, perhaps. Things have changed very quickly... and I've made my share of mistakes along the way."_ Fingers flicked towards his blindfold.

Silence followed, until Thomas asked, _"Can I let you go now, you crazy bark sniffer? Or are you going to stay a fanged sheep?"_

"_I am quite done now."_

"Thank the fucking Light," Thomas muttered, standing to his feet and letting the elf free. "The hell were you on about, Buck?"

The elf rolled to his back, facing Thomas with a smile, and he said, also in Common, "I had to be sure it was you, and I wanted to see where your skill lied now. They haven't gotten inside my mind yet, but there have been convincing illusions before."

"They?"

"The enemy," "Buck" replied solemnly. He jumped to his feet, snagging his kris with a hand in the spring, and the blindfolded gaze turned to peer at the people around them. Genveera had her bow trained upon his breast, crouched in a nearby tree without any warning of arrival, along with the rest of her squad. They had made enough noise to attract her, certainly. Shaking his head, the elf said, "First, let us rejoin your comrades in arms, then take them to my home. Your two flower-tramplers are trussed up under some trees along the way. We have so very much to speak about."

"Who is this, Ranger-General?" Genveera asked finally, calling attention to herself from the rest of Thomas' squad.

"So much to speak about," the elf repeated quietly, lips twitching in a smile.

"Everyone, this is Merridan Twilwing, my mentor. Buck, these are the Ashblades, and my second, Genveera the Swan. We're seeking to make a difference."

An odd smile twisted up one side of Merridan's face, a gesture much like the one Thomas made. In Thalassian, he said, _"I dare say you came to the right place."_

XxX

"The future looks brighter already. I would call you rescued, my lord."

"Who are they – these men that are coming?"

"They call themselves the Exilee. Blood elves, the whole lot, except for their leader. He was... my friend. Is my friend, perhaps, and loyal to the kingdom. Thomas is his name. He can be trusted."

"...I cannot, Merridan. I cannot, even for you. I made my promise. You must conceal the secret, from him, from them. They cannot detect even a trace of this. You will promise me, won't you? You will swear yourself into secrecy for me?"

"..."

"What I ask of you is difficult, I know. But Merridan, you must promise me. He cannot know, not yet. My time has not yet come."

"I cannot lie to the lad. I will not."

"You are an elf, sir – one of the cleverest I've ever met! You can mislead, can say words that are not truths or lies. When the time does come, he will understand, won't he?"

"In his youth, perhaps not. Now though, I can see experience in his eyes, maturity and responsibility... Yes, he will understand, but it will pain us both."

"I am sorry, friend, and you know it. But we cannot take the risk. So say it, I beg you."

"...I am sworn, Lord Dasen."

"I thank you, friend. _We_ thank you."

XxX

Thomas strode up to Merridan once the army was sure of where they would be camping. Finding his old friend not alone, he said, "Ah, who have we here? I see you managed to save at least one since Azeroth's fall."

"I am Lord Dasen McAnole, of Stormwind's House of Nobles. Or at least formerly." The older man still carried a full head of medium-length black hair, though many worry-lines marked the sides of his eyes and gave deep lines in his brow. Dark eyes were kind if sharp, and his lips were restricted to a small smile as he held out his hand in friendly gesture to Thomas. Thomas accepted the hand gently. "Merridan has told me much about you. He holds you in high esteem."

"One could only hope," Thomas replied, giving a nod to Merridan. "You'll forgive me, Lord, if I skip the formalities and jump into the matters at hand. I was hoping to speak to Merridan about our enemy and his take on them."

"By all means, sir. Forget you even saw me," Dasen replied amiably, giving a nod of his head and stepping back.

To Merridan, Thomas asked, "Just one?"

"He is all that made it," the elf replied tightly. He took a step to the side and gestured. "Come. Let us build a fire and cook food. You can bring whomever you see fit for whatever we have to say."

Thomas nodded, until remembering the blindfold. "Right. Fires are safe out here?"

Merridan's teeth showed in his smile. "I've made sure of it."

With a laugh of his own, Thomas nodded again – useless, sure, but reflex – as he turned away with a hand up. "I'll round the sheep then. Usual spot?"

It was. Quickly, Thomas had Commander Raeloth, Captain Maloree, the Portal Masters Ysanna and Lorrin, Genveera, the ex-Bloodwarder Ashbaldes (Velanee, Farron, Meyanna, and Jerath), and several key officers follow him to the old campfire pit he and Merridan had used since he was a child. Also, Thomas brought the magister from the morning, Sarthas, as someone who had experience fighting the daemons. Merridan and Dasen were there waiting already.

"I see you have many men," Dasen commented positively at their arrival. "Where did you manage to find such an army in these times?"

"We have marched from Outland. Left the Dark Portal yesterday, in fact," Thomas told him, once he claimed his usual flat rock. The others found their own seats, until most were left siting on the grass. "We have these two here, Ysanna and Lorrin, to thank for the portals from Stonard to the city ruins. We total up to nearly five-hundred."

"You are a sight for weary eyes – ah, pardon, friend. It had seemed like no hope was to be found."

"We felt much the same," Thomas returned, before looking to Merridan. "So far, we have a lot of rumor and hearsay, with a bit of firsthand experience. I'm hoping you took the time to study and interrogate one."

"You know me too well. I will be glad to speak deep into the night, but before then, I would like to know about your adventures in our separation. These Exilee... these exiles are the Sunfury blood elves that Kael'thas had taken to Outland, yet now you stand at their head. They call you ranger. And then this lass here sits close to your right hand, plucking her bowstring like a lute, and her breathing is seems light and familiar at your presence. You have much to share, Jack."

Sarrine blushed at the comment, ceasing her hands, but Genveera gained attention by asking, "Is Jack your real name, Shadow?"

Merridan laughed at the question, and Thomas decided to let him answer. "Jack is his name no more than mine is Buck. It is a title, dully earned if I may say."

"A title of what?" Sarrine asked. She, along with the others, seemed keenly interested in Thomas' old friend.

The smile was sly. "Why, the Jack of All Trades. He dabbled in more skills, arts, and trades in his youth than most elves already centuries old."

"I had an insistent teacher," Thomas explained, in a faux-woe.

"Yes, an unruly lad you were. "You're not my real dad. You can't tell me what to do!" he'd shout, even at learning letters. But the efforts have paid themselves off, yes? Even magical theory, you have used to detect and predict the actions of your opponents?"

"You broke your oaths to take in a human protegee," Meyanna mentioned quietly. "For what reason?"

Merridan gave her a stern look, though his covered eyes took from gesture. He told her, "A bold accusation for a ranger lord, young lady. Would you take your case with me to the courts of Silvermoon over this human?"

"Indirect teachings, with full intent, are no different..." Her voice trailed off as Farron gave her a look, and she hunched over herself, indifferent to him. "Regardless," she said through gritted teeth, as if pulling out fingernails, "I would much rather thank you for the efforts, for without them, we would not be here." Farron nodded while she looked away.

"Ranger lord," Thomas repeated, the question in his voice, only to be overcome by Jerath's bolder words. He spoke in Thalassian though:

_"Ranger Lord Brightwing! You are him, the kin of Halduron. That is where I have heard "Merridan" before."_

"Not in this life," Merridan whispered. "Not anymore. Alas, I will not bore the assembly with the details of all our pasts. Jack, if you please, and then I shall."

"As best you do, Sir Ranger Lord," Thomas returned, keeping his tone playful though the subject in mind. "I've been in deep Outland, as I told you I would. The Horde and Alliance have cleared out since the fall of the Betrayer and Kael'thas, though some do check back. However, the Shadow Cult moved quickly, vying to seize advantage of the skeleton crews left in the wake to perform further deeds, and I have hosted the efforts to kill off their poison. My latest success, and the death of their current leader, took me to the the crumbling wastes of Netherstorm.

"To my surprise, many of the Sunfury still lived, though most on their last leg of life. If they seem frail now, this is nothing against their shape at the time of my encounter. They had not even the strength to fight off a nether-corrupted mana beast at Manaforge Ara, falling in droves, and I intervened before I could think. There was no excuse after to rescue dead men. I offered to ferry them from the wastelands to Azeroth, to decide their own fates. That moment was a month ago."

Merridan rubbed his chin, creating a scratching sound at the scuff he needed to shave. It grated against Thomas' ears, no louder than the crickets beginning to chirp in the small clearing one over. "These plans of ferry did not seem to survive long, "Ranger General." I am guessing you took them into combat. You revealed yourself, and your skill, to them, and they saw within you compassion and valor. The traits of a human."

"And recklessness," Sarrine was quick to add, laughing when Merridan did.

Thomas clucked his tongue, but he nodded. "I struggle to find balance between my independent life of before and the responsibility of their lives now. I have been called into check repeatedly by those gathered here. We have, though, encountered masses of refuges fleeing Azeroth – the planet, not just my kingdom – to that shattered world we sought to escape. Since then, we have been thrust into a world of daemons and Sightless, a broken capital and scattered peoples. It seems the apocalypse came and went without notice, and we are in its aftermath."

"Yes, things have been hells and high waters in the last few weeks. I did not notice the state of things until I could see the billows of smoke rising from Stormwind, and the forest shrieked its fury and fear of creatures running through its depths in hunting droves. Sightless, you call them. Yes, I can agree to that. Lord Dasen was the first I could find among those in flight, and with him was the young Prince Anduin."

Noting the pristine lack of princely presence, and the comment of before, Thomas could assume what had happened. "These Sightless are skilled enough to overcome even your protection?"

"When determined," Merridan agreed solemnly. Dasen was looking to the fire, his features stark and depressed in the flickering orange light. "They came not long after the King was assassinated in his own chamber, surrounded by his guard. Those of importance, of influence or power, were targeted, and the prince was no exception. I'm afraid I do not have your skill to step through shadows, and my speed was not enough against three. Three... Sightless, yes."

Thomas leaned back and crossed his arms before him. "But you defeated them, yes? These Sightless are not so deadly as rumor prescribes."

Merridan looked to the fire, the glow overtaking his face and covered eyes, until he slowly shook his head. "No, you assume too much. The fight went terribly, and my eyes – and nearly my mind – were forfeit. I slew one for this terrible cost, and while the two others tried to flee, I barely captured one. Since then, only the lesser folk, those you called daemons, have dared wander into the forest, and I followed their presence to end them as I find them. Now, they mostly avoid the forest – in its entirety – but it was with great pleasure that I heard today the forest rejoice in song, rather than wail in fear. I am glad to see you, old friend."

Thomas nodded. "Forgive me for pressing upon dark times, but it is important to us all that we understand this adversary. What did your interrogation reveal?"

"Dark worlds and dark promises," Merridan whispered, his voice dropping quieter and quieter. "Sightless is so, yes, but perhaps not daemon. A master of... unspeakable evil controls them, controls whom is blessed with Sightless eyes, and his mark is done in shadows and earthy pleasures. The captive spoke much in his madness, but there is one note of importance... I'm sorry, I cannot pronounce his words, so allow me to spell them."

He raised his hand, and a blue light pooled there. A second later, a shrieking, clicking voice laughed between its wheezing. "To-ooh-ooh late, youngling! The Exyccikt'la-" Everyone winced at the inhuman sound over that word. "-have tak-k-ken the blood tolls! Quiver! Writhe! Squirm! Scream! Shriek! Groan! Shake!" The spell died abruptly, ending the sound.

Still grim, Merridan concluded, "That tirade continues until I slit its throat and removed its heart. Its vocabulary was... extensive."

"Light," someone muttered, stunned by the message.

Thomas remained unmoved from where he sat, arms still crossed. "In your best estimate, how many people remain all across the planet?"

"A surprising many, woeful though it may seem now," Merridan told him quickly. "The closer you are to centralized power, the worse you had it, but in the desolate lands and barren peoples, they might not know this catastrophe has come at all. The Horde, Alliance – everyone was hit by the criteria of power."

"I can think of no more extensive wasteland than the frozen lands of Northrend," Thomas mentioned lightly, almost absently.

Merridan's lip twitched at the side. "Funny that you mention that place."

A hand was gestured to Maloree. The woman blinked at first, then quickly retrieved a folded cloth from a satchel she held at her side. It was white, with black and green.

Thomas began to unfold it, noticing that already his people had set and dried the dyes. With a snap, he unfurled it entirely, revealing the Sightless flag Jerath had found, not painted in imitation of a blood elf eye. "Their banner is composed of frostweave, and Lorrin managed to trace a sort of centralized power to there. Excuse the new look. Some thought it suiting."

Merridan made a loud hum as he accepted the banner. "Yes, I am so offended by the touches I cannot see. If my mind is still keen, I recall a white flag with three black circles, yes? What have you changed?"

"We painted the Sightless Eye green. More of a blood elven eye now."

Merridan laughed as his fingers etched at the fabric. "Headstrong, always, and it seems these Exilee only permit your tendencies. Hmm, yes, frostweave by touch. I was given no such word, but I have been a better killer than talker, and my emissaries to them came in the form of severed heads."

"Perhaps I see where the Shadow gets it from," Genveera speculated in a hushed whisper. Thomas and Merridan had identical smirks.

"So you will march to the frozen lands with your band of five hundred?" Merridan asked finally, returning to his solemn state.

"With you, if I could. Your skill and knowledge would be much appreciated. Your leadership, even, so called Ranger Lord," Thomas told him. He nodded towards the quiet lord. "Lord Dasen McAnole is welcome too, or we can find a safe place to leave you in the meanwhile."

Merridan scratched at his scruff again, and he mentioned, "I'm sorry, Jack, that I never told you. It is not well for a Ranger Lord to drop off the face of the planet to brood in a foreign forest. You were good at keeping that mouth shut, when it suited you, but I was taking no chances, and neither of our pasts seemed important in those days. Even now, I would not call them so."

"Forgiven, sir," Thomas told him robustly. "In fact, a few things were made clearer about you. What matters though is Buck, not any Brightwing. Will you accompany us?"

"I'm afraid the choice is not my own. I have an unbreakable obligation to Lord Dasen here, and his preservation. What say you, old friend? Will you march with us into the very den of the adversary? Will you bare your throat to them one more time, with a legion of hardy elves at your back? It will be cold, and frightful, and you will choke with fear, ash, and anguish – but we may have the opportunity to strike down the master of them all, including the Singing Blade whom claimed the king."

There was no hesitation from the weary lord. He shook his head and lifted it to face the conversation. "No, we must go. I will not have you taken from your friend and the conflict on my account. If we have the chance to strike at the enemy, if we have the possibility of victory, then we must go. I will offer myself to serve your army, Ranger-General, as I can. I may seem weak, but that only means I have much room to grow."

Thomas' lip turned up at that. "I see why you like him."

Merridan nodded. "Aye. He's like you but without the bitterness. Imagine if he was just a lad, like you had been." The lord's eyes glowered at that, surprisingly sharp in their glare. The elf did not wink – couldn't, without eyes – but the raised eyebrow and upturned lip, smiling like Thomas, was enough.

"Um, sir," Ysanna started, seeming reluctant on how to address Merridan. He addressed her with his face. "You mentioned "Singing Blades." In Stonard, we had thought them only rumor, but the Horde knew of those called "Windcutters." They were, by report, individual assassins that invaded each city and slew its leader in the seat of his or her power, noted by the whistle of their blades as they sliced through the air. Is that what you refer to?"

Genveera stepped up then. "That lord we encountered before the Dark Portal. He also called the assassin Singing Blade. I assume that is what the humans have taken to calling them... or him."

"Them," Merridan said sternly. "That... Sightless had referred to them as the Exyccikt'la." Even Merridan winced at the hairball-like sound of him trying to cough out the word like the monster had. "They are what we call the Singing Blades. The "blood tolls" I have assumed to mean the claiming of the leaders of the world."

The snaps and pops of the fire filled the following silence. In short while, Thomas shook his head and demanded, "What the hell are we fighting, Buck? Daemons, Sightless, Singing Blades... nothing has gotten this close to wiping out our world before. Not even the old gods."

With terrible shrieks, birds erupted from the trees around them, within a fifty yard radius Thomas noted in the abrupt moment, happening the moment the last word escaped his mouth. Only Merridan didn't flinch at the sound, nor look at the ongoing screeches.

With chilling formality and reservation, Merridan said in the moment, "They are a lingering possibility. Five were chained, two were freed. Three remain beneath our feet. Beware He That Always Watches. Beware the Beast Of All Eyes... Those Sightless did not cut out their eyes. They gave them away, freely."

No one said another word for a long moment. Thomas had a frown though, ending the quiet with, "There you go, getting all creepy on me again, Buck. I'm going to explain it as too long cooped up in a forest alone, and maybe a flash-fried mind at a meeting with madness, those Sightless dogs."

He looked to those around him, keeping his suspicions locked deep away. "Alright, this meeting is adjourned, or however you wish to say it. Keep in mind what you have all heard here, and repeat it with all reluctance. Buck and I have more to talk about, but you need not stay. Donvorei has a week to build what he can, then Ysanna and Lorrin, you will take us as far north as you can."

"I feel the blues would not appreciate it if we appeared at their Nexus, but there is a ley line at Wyrmrest Temple, in the Great Dragonblight of Northrend," the female portal master replied. "I cannot promise the structure remains still, but the node cannot be touched."

Thomas nodded. "The plan is set. Rest well, and remain vigilant."

* * *

AN: Thus we conclude Drekthac's and Thomas' part in The First Stage.


	14. Chapter 12: Prophet

Chapter 12

_Prophet_

* * *

X Fallen X

It was the end of their second day inside the desert, and already the soaring wall they needed to climb to leave Un'Goro could be seen from the gaps between trees, barely a mile further along. However, painted though it was in the pale white and blue light of Azeroth's two moons, Sin decided to face the climb the next morning, when they were rested, rather than force their way up and risk highwaymen. Bandits and renegade qiraji, hit by highwaymen.

Sin felt the world could spin on without adding such irony.

As the camp was erected, he felt the urge to take one last heavenly bath in Un'Goro's heated springs, and without passing word to anyone but his qiraji, he slipped away. Narelle followed him, as was her way, at least until he began stripping his clothing at the water edge. He could tell she backed off, just this once. Well, her choice then.

Whimsically, he invited Sekara to join him in the water, and she came quickly. Wearing only wispy cloth clothing now, with a vest that could easily slip on and off with her nubs instead of armor, she stripped herself without assistance. As he accepted her lithe body in his arms though, the other qiraji present expressed the desire to bathe near him. Sin raised an eyebrow at Ressact and her vague expression.

Narelle left her Watch on Sin de Rath entirely to return to the camp. He would not part from that staff under any excuse, meaning its influence would at least be kept in check. He was too bluntly honest to try escaping then anyways, with only a few of his qiraji. An odd human.

There, the cultists moved about freely, setting up fires and pots for dinner, drinking water and talking with an excited air about them. That of prisoners freed, in the midst of their grand escape. Narelle was disturbed by the lack of riders swooping through the forest after them. Feathermoon's reinforcements should have arrived days ago.

In her slow walk through the camp, she saw that dwarf again, he whom had overcome her briefly. The man was drinking with companions, but as her eyes passed over him, he looked up and smiled at her, winking once merrily. She kept the digusted look off her face, only moving on, until she found an elevated rock to perch upon.

From the vantage point, she could see out over the camp and observe everyone's activities. She wondered to herself how many would betray them later on, how many she should be ending the lives of now, before they contribute to the evil of later. Justice needed to be met, but Sin de Rath had forbidden her.

She was not bound by his word, but if rumor reached his ears that men or women were missing within in the camp, or if a body was seen, he would come for her, and the dispute would not be simple. Blood would have to be drawn, and confident though she was of herself, she had an unnerving thought that he couldn't be slain as easily as destroying that body. Plus, his death now would not be as just as she'd prefer. Only an ending of a possible threat, and a current ally.

Remembering his staff, she added, _If I could win at all, and he does not fall into the grips of that... darkness._

An hour passed without the return of Sin. Narelle began to wonder at his actions, but she recalled him at the qiraji bathing hole, before the spat with the succubus, and felt, with a wave of repulsion, that it was better she did not witness whatever it was his desires sought.

It was around then that she heard the flapping of wings that did not pass easily. Something large then, or something approaching them rather than fleeing. She waited a patient moment longer, listening, and confirmed it was indeed approaching. However, the lack of deep air distortions told her it was no hippogryph. Her head turned as it reached the camp, seeing a desert hawk swooping by.

Silver eyes went wide at the presence of a small scroll strapped to its claw. A courier bird. Bringing her fingers and a string of magic to her mouth, she whistled for it to come. As all creatures did to the call of a sentinel, it turned immediately and approached her gladly. Narelle held out her arm for it to land, comforted by its light presence when it did.

She fingered the rolled paper, seeing it tiny and simple, with a single tag reading "Sin de'Rath." _Hmm._ She plucked it free from the hawk, whispering softly when it complained at the theft of its charge. It fell complacent again, while she unraveled the message.

Her eyes dragged over each sloppy line, mentally recognizing the careless scrabble of a goblin, even if in the Common language. She paused for a moment, brow furrowing as her gaze narrowed, and she reread the message.

The hawk released a loud shriek as Narelle lunged from her rock onto the forest floor, taking off in a sprint. She whistled again, commanding it to follow in case its services were needed again, clutching the letter in her hand tightly. Cultist and qiraji alike turned to look at her pass, but she ignored them all, breaking past the last tent and into the forest of trees and green growth.

Near the river she came, slowing only when she caught sight of the warlock in question. He was dressed, sitting with legs crossed on a stone beside the bank. His warden-cloak was around him, not mixing the the grass and water as well as it could sand, and he seemed in deep meditation. The qiraji reluctantly parted from her fast charge, though Narelle saw several peel open their scythes as she passed.

"Sin!" she cried, thrusting the letter towards him as he was startled from his trance. Narelle did not know how he would reply to her reading his letter – she hadn't meant for him to know – but she was more worried by his response to the message itself.

The patient, self-controlled human accepted it from her without her urgency, and he opened it to take a quick read.

_Sin de'Rath,_

_Get your ass back here ASAP! Gadgetzan is under attack, and we can't hold at all! Your mom is out there right now trying to fight them back, but she ain't winning, man! There will be money in it if you can get here in time! Profit's speed!_

_-Don Cudgellax, Head of the Bruisers_

The message vanished in a puff of flame. Narelle paused, tension tight in her chest, not knowing if she should be prepared to draw her weapons or not. Sin did not look at her. He glanced at the qiraji, specifically the one he called Sekara, and then stood to his feet, taking his staff from his lap and let its butt touch the stone. When it did, Narelle flinched at the release of black magic, thrumming through the land again in response to its owner's emotions.

From his backpack, he withdrew a white orb, and green light blossomed in his hands.

Narelle stared at him, confused at first, but the blue spiral along the face of the stone caught her attention. It was a hearthstone. Wild, desperate thoughts told her to stick a knife in him, to cut his concentration, but barely, she prevented herself, fists clenching.

"Stay here," he commanded coldly, to all that were present, just before the magic of the stone whisked him away.

The qiraji broke into a loud buzz at his absence, wings blurring loudly. Narelle did not hesitate like they did, was not confused as they were. She began sprinting, into the dark forest, towards the rock wall that led up to Tanaris Desert. He would be going home, to Gadgetzan. She needed to hurry if she were to catch up, hoping he would not slay her when she came if the city had already fallen.

XxX

People still lived in Gadgetzan. Sin could tell from the screaming outside the walls of his home.

The hearthstone took him to his very bedroom, immediately filling him with the scent of deep musk, fresh rugs, an incense candle, and also a heavy cloud of ash that was not from _Shed'lahk._ His mother's war staff. He had it, not she, and she was the defender here.

With swift steps, he moved out his door, then down log stairs to the bottom floor. Each log was near four inches thick, buried into the sandstone wall, and covered with a rug to keep traction. Sin noticed mug from Un'Goro that clung to his boots was smearing over it; he could only hope his mother could chastise him for it later.

The wood door was already left open, emittting Sin into a city on fire. Goblins ran about, clamoring to find any bruiser that would keep them safe, while the bruisers themselves tried banding together for a form of defense. They did not face any foe though, did not seem to know where to look.

Sin strode forward, deeper into the central of the city, near their caged arena, where he found three gladiators half-garbed with clean blades. At the floor of the cage though was a familiar face, wearing the same black cap that its owner vehemently insisted didn't attract further heat in the desert. Don Cudgellax was dead.

The first of the gladiators noticed him, turning to say something to his companion. She also looked, an orc with more scars than both of her companions, and he recognized her by the long one that stretched from lip to over her left eye. She was missing a tusk on that side.

"Sin!" she roared, true joy shining in her expression. Cupping her hands before her face, she bellowed loudly over the noise of the city, "Sin de Rath is here! Take heart, children of the desert!"

The bruisers looked over, then followed her attention over to Sin himself, already garbed in the cloak they knew well. Quickly, they waved each other forward, scrambling up to him, and the civilians trying to hide behind them followed.

"Sin, man am I glad to see you!" the first one shouted. Sin couldn't recall his name at the moment, but he was one of the Don's boys. "Things were wild here, and we think its still around."

"It?" he demanded, ice still thick in his voice.

"Yeah, weird flying thing with scythe arms," the goblin replied, and the others nodded. "Margaret already blasted two of them to smithereens, but then she just vanished and one of them was still buzzing about."

The qiraji, the Battleguards, immediately appeared in his mind at the description. His teeth grit, though he knew it couldn't have been one of his. "Where was she fighting? Where was the enemy seen last?"

"Down south, near the wall. The bank went up in flames, and then no one could spot her. The creature had just split the water tower on the east end, and we heard some noise from the inn. We got your back though, buddy. Lead on!"

It said something that the innkeeper, cowering a few feet away from the final bruiser, didn't moan over his lost business and money. Only three attackers total, it seemed, yet so much confusion here.

His cloak billowed at the first few steps as Sin rushed towards the south. His first priority was reuniting with his mother, perhaps give up _Shed'lahk_ to her, and then saving the town with her at his side. Or at her side, as it would be.

Indeed the bank was in flames. The special team of vault keepers were dead, the ones that could be seen lying prone on the ground before it, the rest likely turning to cinders inside its bowels. Sin stared into its depths, beginning to wonder if she was in there herself, either burning or in a shell that fire could not penetrate. As he stared though, there was a loud groan, and bunker's room collapse, filling its lower chambers. As it did, a glint of purple launched from the tunnel in a gout of hot smoke.

Sin caught the gem with his tense reflexes, and he looked down to see a purple orb, with its surface smooth but oiled, as if dunked in a jar of grease. It left no residue on his hand, but its feel was unnerving. And familiar, for he had an identical one in his left pocket. A gentle probe touched the orb, and he felt a strong fire within it.

Sin took a slow, patient breath, and exhaled. It was filled. His mother was dead, though not entirely so. He would need to find her corpse, make sure she was clear, before she could release her very soul from its occupancy within the stone and revive herself.

Her soulstone joined his in his pocket, and Sin turned towards the eastern end of the wall, _Shed'lahk_ gripped tightly in his fist. Just then, a creature emerged from the burning skeleton of the inn, rolling over the sand briefly before jumping into the air on insectoid wings. Twin scythes moved eagerly as it searched around.

The creature was not qiraji, Sin was glad to see. Its body was thick, more like a qiraji Gladiator, but hovered on wings different from the fly ones of the Battleguards, and its scythe-arms were only two of many, also not contained within the red-nubbed bones. The antenna-bearing, bug-eyed head turned to the side, and it was clear it was not a helmet. It's carapace was pure black, and a thump of his staff over the sand ripped away the enchantment that tried obscuring its features to him.

Sin's first steps towards it revealed something to him. Those were not its eyes, on the corners of its head. It had two large circles closer to the front, where the orbs should have been, but instead he could see roughly hewed sockets there, with the very backs burned shut over the nerve. Melted shut, he should say, from the bubbled-like flesh there.

Regardless, he was in no mood for the details of this mantis-like foe – it was like a qiraji, aye, and it was like a nerubian, aye, and it was neither, aye – instead he raised his staff, beginning to summon from his vast stores of arcane power, and allowing _Shed'lahk_ to enhance his power with its burning essence.

"My life for the Empress and the Master!" it announced, with a voice that shrieked and clicked like he expected from an insect, much like the nerubians.

Sin replied with magic.

XxX

The inn, along with the greater portion of the eastern wall, was disintegrated. So was the enemy, but the damage done beyond it was far worse than the flames of his mother's making. The goblins did not complain, for once, knowing their lives were more valuable than their possessions – and because who was going to try picking a bone with the guy who destroyed half the city with a single spell? Sin had lost too, they knew.

After it all, Sin staggered back into his house, feeling far too exhausted but still able to keep moving. He knew he would need to learn to portion his strength with _Shed'lahk_, for it was eager to take it all away at once and try to assume control over him while he was weak. He fell to his knees on one of their colorful cushions, uncaring of the dust still coating his clothing and the sand and mud that further marred up their rugs. The door closed behind him and locked with an unconscious thread of magic.

_Shed'lahk_ was laid across his lap, and then Sin retrieved both soulstones from his pocket. His was vibrating with magical power, ready in case he were to fall in the battle, while his mothers seemed ready to leap out of his hands with all the power it was giving off. Combining magic with the soul was a dangerous, forbidden practice – one mishap could erase ones soul forever, but they had mastered it, disjointed though it might seem.

How could one small orb of magic contain all that was Margaret de Rath?

Sin rolled the two orbs over his palms, struggling to think of his next action. It took him several minutes to even recall the bandits and qiraji he'd left behind in Un'Goro, left with Narelle Blackmoon. He stared into their pristine, opaque purple depths, thinking of his mother, of his future, and a bit of his past. He considered where her corpse might be, unable to find it anywhere in the city, but as he thought, the purple orb that was hers seemed to grow larger and larger in his sight.

There was a faint recollection talking to Sekara as his attention was caught up in the orb, larger still, until he could only see purple in his vision. And then the world collapsed around him.

When Sin opened his eyes, not realizing he had even closed them, he was no longer in his home. Purple mists, laced with veins of black and silver, swirled about him. His brows furrowed, wondering if he was dreaming or the madness had overcome him once again.

He tried to explain this with cold logic. Between the soulstone, his familiarity with the qiraji bond, and the current state of the world, he presumed he was somehow _inside_ his mother's soulstone. But that was impossible! He had been within his own stone before, and the experience was nothing like this.

A warm, rich laughter filled his ears. Sin felt himself relax at the sound, his face relaxing into a more sincere expression, as he looked into the purple mist. "Mother..." he said.

Then she was there, pushing her way through the clouds. She wore robes of blue and teal, its edge going up to her chin, where she had it buckled with a collar. It clung to her frame around the chest, shoulders, arms and waist, but bell ends were stiff and wide for her hands, and past the waist it fell like a comfortable robe, with her black sandaled feet sticking out at the bottom.

She was a beautiful woman, for one so steeped in darkness. Flawless, dark skin the color of almonds, and two eyes that burned with gold as pure as the precious metal, with only thin rings of brown at the edges of her iris. Presently, her wavy, black hair was cut short, only to her shoulders, and it was brushed from her eyes to the left. She was smiling at him, the same he always remembered on her face.

She stopped at two spans before him, and her hands settled on her waist in a painfully familiar stance. "Well, my son, it has been some years, hasn't it? Back from your solitude on the ruins of Draenor? Or did you tour the Twisting Nether? Or did the scars of your past take you to Silithus once again?"

"All three, mother," Sin told her, formal, and added, "Though my tour through the Nether was very short. I do not trust myself not to think away my arms there."

She laughed again, nodding. "You have all the control to be a master there, my son... Even now, where I feel the fog clinging over your brain. Mind fire, yes?"

"And worse. There is much to tell you, mother; much to share. Do we have the time here?"

"There is always time for those who seek it. Come, sit with me, and speak as you did when your years were few and your face bright with curiosity. I see the shadows have come for you so soon. Have you taken up the burden of _Shed'lahk_ already?"

As Sin sat with her, one firm cloud molding like their pillows of home, he grew startled. "You knew that I would? Despite all your warnings?"

Her smile dimmed to a faint shadow of itself. "On the day of your birth, there was a prophesy said of you. A dark prophesy, that spoke of only pain and misfortune, of the darkest deeds, for you and all those near you. I was told to discard you, to take you far away from the Shadow, but I could not – would not – do that to the flesh of my flesh, the _sin_ of my _sin. _But yes, I knew you would one day take up _Shed'lahk."_

_Blood of my blood._ From when Sin had been interested in learning Thalassian but only knew some words. "Sin" meant "blood," something he knew long before "Sin'dorei" was a common term.

"Will I lose the battle against _Shed'Beshal?"_ he asked quietly, falling grim.

His mother embraced him gently, her body warm through her robes, as it always was. "One day, you will see. I will always be proud of you, my son, and you will always carry all of my support. I do not believe you capable of such evil as releasing the prisoner willfully, nor so weak as to do so unwillfully. You will make a fine Keeper."

"You make it sound as though we shall be parting, mother. Tell me where your corpse rests, and I will have you freed to return."

Now, she frowned, a short little pout over her lower lip. "The beasts took my corpse with them. There were five of the enemy, not the three that revealed themselves. I do not know what they plan with it, but I will revive myself anyways and make them rue the day they thought to harm a de'Rath!"

"Who are they? Minions of the new old god?"

Her gold eyes flashed. "I see you already know. From my brief exchange with them, I know they are called mantid, and those I fought called the Paragons. But they are native to Azeroth, corrupted though they may seem, while the old god is not. Indeed though, they serve him willfully. I fear many will serve him in the coming days, whether or not they came as his minions."

"Yes, I feared so... Mother, how did you take me here? Inside your soulstone?"

She winked, a broad smile on her face again. "I was called Grand Warlock once, before settling in Tanaris. But for all the tricks I know, the intricacies of my weaves, and my textbook control, I do not have the years of thick combat experience that you do. I was not there at the fall of the Betrayer, in the tunnels of C'Thun's lair, nor was it my fist that beat back the Deceiver as he crawled into Azeroth at the Sunwell. I have toured the Nether enough to call it home, but you know more of demonology and the fel arcane than I... If it had not been so, I might never have needed to summon _Shed'Beshal_ when I faced the nameless evil."

Sin did not know how to respond to the off-hand compliment of his ability, when she had always seemed leagues beyond him. Perhaps she was humbly downplaying her own skill, but it still sent the heat of a blush up to his ears.

"Now, enough of that. Tell me of your travels. I will hear all about it before the burden of tearing myself from the mantids' grasps."

Images passed through Sin's mind. He knew what she would face then. She would revive herself, still bloodied and wearied from her death, already in the grasps of her foe, likely sealing her soul away in another soulstone, and summon all the hell and thunder she could before they slew her again... and the process would repeat until they were dead. Then she would begin the trek back home, without supplies or shelter.

If Sekara had betrayed him in the Ahn'Qiraj Temple, he would have had to do the same, woeful though it was. One death was harsh enough on the soul.

"In my run through Silithus, a qiraji met me. Friendly, in a state of urgency... She asked for my help. And I gave it." So he began, recounting for her all that happened since he first entered the desert of his death. She listened to his every word, from the chewing madness to the arguments with Narelle over what was to be done with the bandits. As mothers did, she listened to her son talk, never growing impatient, always supportive, until it was all out.

She was still smiling by the end, with a certain twinkle in her eyes. "So my son has become a lord in my absence, I take it. I see this Sekara truly has taken your eye. I would like to meet this woman you fancy, no matter her race, in a soon coming day."

"I would have it so, mother, if... not for the state of things now. If these mantid have come here, then the old god's long arm has reached even the very bottom of the world now. The Battleguards will not be safe here, worst still if isolated and left vulnerable. I must take the fight to this old god myself, and gather around me whatever allies I can."

The glow of her face was absolutely brilliant, like a being of Light had infiltrated her soul. Pride was like a physical expression on her face, though Sin could not see why. His choices had not all been so great, and his own state in life not as it could be. He was only human, nothing to be proud of.

"Yes, my son," she said finally. The warmth was strong in her voice. "You have long since taken flight of your nest and become your own man. I do not fear for your future at all. The Nameless One holds not a candle to the brightness that is you. If my fight falls sour, then I can die knowing my purpose has been accomplished."

"Mother?" Sin asked, hesitant.

The smile was fixed on her face. "You are curious, my son, but you have no reason to fear. Think now of the terrible darkness that our paths have taken us. Think of the Shadow we use, antithesis of the Light we follow, and think of the corruptive fel we so quickly subject ourselves to. Think of the arrogance of a warlock, a master of beings and the psychological sway there, and think of _Shed'lahk_, with all of its powerful whispers and powers. And realize the kind of man you are despite this. Your father would be so proud."

Sin's brow was furrowed, too uncertain to even blush now, and he watched her shake with her rich laughter once again. She stood to her feet in a graceful motion, more fluid than even the night elf Narelle could manage. She gave him a small bow, which he quickly rose to return.

"Farewell, my son. Your future is bright, but if you ever need advice, or an ear to listen, you know where home is."

"Wait!" he cried, and she did. "Before you go, tell me if there is more to _Shed'Beshal_ and its prisoner than you have told me through the stories."

Even that subject was not enough to dim her smile. "A fair question. It is my own theory that what the old gods are to the Great Dark Beyond, the nameless one is to the Twisting Nether."

It took Sin several moments to realize the full significance of that statement. Then his brow went high and his eyes were like saucers. "But it has no name!"

A crafty wink. "So give it one. You are its Keeper."

...Sweet merciful fuck of the Light and Shadow. The implications!

The world rushed around them. Sin was torn back, away from his mother, and when the purple filled his vision once again, he found himself falling back, away from the soulstone in his hand. His back hit the pillow. A second later, he felt the burning fire within her soulstone wink out, and the gem splintered into purple shards before crumbling into dust.

He was back in his home now, staring first at his sandstone ceiling, then looking down at the pile of lavender dust in his hand. He whispered a short prayer to the Light for her. Margaret de Rath's fight had truly begun.

XxX

Narelle saw smoke rising from Gadgetzan. The sandy city still stood, but clearly there had been great fires within at whatever conflict had raged. It must have only recently ended, or recently been controlled, as she had been running without stopping for six hours now.

There were no guards stationed outside the walls. That was worrisome, but she supposed there were more pressing matters for the goblin people within. Not for the first time as she ran, Narelle wished she had mastered enough druid arts to transform her body into that of a large cat or bird for travel. It would have saved her much time. More importantly, it would have saved her energy, which she might need if conflict arose between her and Sin de Rath.

Running up the great ramp from Un'Goro's floor up thousands of feet vertical to the Tanaris Desert had taken the steepest toll on her body, no matter how conditioned she was. The fifty miles from the exit to Gadgetzan had been her recovery, if it were to have a label. She knew sand running well, at least, empowered further by the Aspect of the Cheetah that her sentinel training had taught her. But even cheetahs had limits.

She slowed to a brisk walk upon entering the massive iron-toothed gates. With her blood pumping that hard, she knew she'd fall unconscious if she stopped moving entirely. Her entrance called attention to her from the many scurrying Gadgetzan inhabitants. Having ran through the night, the sun was peaking over the eastern buildings, and the shadowmelding illusion of her race had fallen away to reveal her clearly to them as night elf.

And after a time of attack and crisis, outsiders were the last thing these people wished to deal with. Already, bruisers were marching towards her, cudgels in hand. She quickly fought to recover enough breath to speak clearly in the rough Common tongue.

"Listen, lady," the lead bruiser started, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.

"I need to speak to Sin de Rath!" she declared, falling into breathless panting once again. If this was his home town, as he said and his files agreed, then that should be enough.

Indeed it was, and the goblins stopped, growing wary but hesitant. They looked amongst themselves, and the leading one turned back to her. "Yeah, and what are you, his lover?" He gave a deliberate look at her body through her dirtied cloak, though his whistle seemed more at the dozens of blades strapped there than the peaks of skin he could see behind them.

Narelle did not have time for this. So she nodded.

This time, the whole lot of them whistled, seeming impressed. She resisted rolling her eyes. Again it was the front one that spoke: "Well, I'll let him sort you out then, lady. Follow me. You lot, get back to work!"

The man moved back, eastern along the wall she had just entered. Many of the houses there were still untouched. Looking northeast from there, Narelle could see the true damage to the city. She stared at the huge expanse of black soil and completely obliterated area that took out all of the eastern end of the city.

"Yeah, your boyfriend did that," the goblin growled. "Guy has some anger issues you really need to sort out." Narelle suddenly wasn't so sure she could beat him even rested, staring out at the devastation. "Come a long ways?"

Still panting, she managed two nods. He grunted, muttering, "Elves..."

The bruiser stopped at a squat building, made of sandstone with wooden support. He knocked on the door, shouting, "Yo, Sin! Got your lady out here sweatin' like a dog!"

Narelle did not stop as he did, pacing back and forth to keep her legs moving and the blood flowing, but the comment made her look down. Indeed her skin showed a heavy sheen of sweat. It reminded her she needed to drink, already dehydrated, and so she pulled a skin from her belt.

She stared at the house though, memorizing it as the one that belonged to her prey. More than ever, she was certain she could only dispose of Sin if he fell through ambush and assassination. It was a modest two story building. It could easily support a family of three with size, and it would not seem full of a vast emptiness if only one lived there. It made her think of home, with family, before she could shake the thoughts away.

No one answered the door though, so the goblin beat at it again, repeating, "Yo! Sin!" After another moment, he growled and opened the door himself, turning to say, "Wait here, Mistress de'Rath." He snorted at the name, disappearing inside the depths.

The reminder of her alibi, with thoughts of family and home, did not sit with well with her.

Less than a minute later, the goblin returned, shutting the door behind her. He had a puzzled look on his face. "He ain't in there. Look, I know you care about em, but your guy just lost his mother-" Narelle froze in place, her heart suddenly racing. "-so you're free to look for em, but just go easy, alright? He might need some time alone."

Sin, whose mind was already a battlefield of its own, had lost his mother, family, whom he clearly cared about dearly. She looked to the north, towards the empty devastation. Sin had done that in anger, the bruiser had told her. What was he going to do to _her_ when he noticed his warden had come for him?

She had to take the chance. Azeroth itself would be in further danger if he fell and she failed her duties now.

A wave of blackness rushed into her mind then, and quickly Narelle began to pace again, remembering to breath. The bruiser said, "You can go on inside. I'll send him over if I see him." Without further argument, she did, hoping that Sin would not have her detained the moment he heard she was here. She did not want to have to force her hand against the men of law here.

The bruiser moved on back into the Gadgetzan, snapping orders as he did. With the death of Don, someone needed to fill the shoes of the head man, and he stepped up to the task. Not because of any ambitions – ambitions for the head of the bruisers got a man killed; just ask Don Cudgellax – but because he'd been on the force for enough years to know what to do. People deferred to him now.

Half an hour later, he still saw no sign of Sin. That worried him. The de'Rath's were the real muscle of their city, when it came to magical power, and both were close confidants of the bruisers. He did not want both missing if another one of those creatures came on by.

He dropped by the house again, letting himself in. Old instincts told him he wasn't alone, that a predator was watching him the moment he entered, and it took him a moment to perceive the shape molded into the shadows of a distant corner. Rogues certainly couldn't sneak by a bruiser well; night elves were no exception to that rule.

"Yo, lady de'Rath, you seen Sin yet?"

"I have not," her cool voice returned, and she leaned forward enough for a strand of light to fall across her face and reveal herself to him. Unnerving, those elves were. What Sin saw in her, when he could have himself a big booty goblin, with a crafty, backstabbing mind, was beyond him. Now _those_ were women a man could trust.

As he opened his mouth again, he felt a thrum of magic rip through the air between them, and he raised his mace quickly, thinking her attacking him. Instead, there was a glow of green, spiraling through the air, and a portal opened up. Not like any mage portal that he'd seen, that was for sure, but a second later, a familiar face stepped out of it, letting the portal vanish with a pop behind him.

"Fuck, Sin," he complained, lowering his cudgel. "You nearly scared the profits out of me."

The warlock looked at him with raised eyebrows, and he gave a short bow of acknowledgment. "Forgive me," Sin started, "but why are you within my home?" A deadly pause. "Did they come back?"

"No, no!" he returned quickly. He gestured his weapon. "Your lover came trompin' on in. I was just bringing her over to you, let you deal with her."

"My lover?" Sin asked, amused, as he turned as directed. The night elf had retreated deeper into the shadows, completely hidden, but a second later Sin exclaimed, "Ah! There you are... darling. Why do you hide? The city is safe, as Gadgetzan can get, once again."

A second later, the night elf peeled herself from the place, her face completely devoid of emotion. Really, what did Sin see in a woman like her! Not even a lick of emotion, be it satisfaction or hate. Disgusting, in a relationship. But who was he to judge? "Alright," he told the couple. "I'm going on out again before you get all smoochy on me. Stay close if you can, Sin."

He left.

"Yes, wouldn't want him to see us get all smoochy," Sin repeated, amusement threading his voice. "So... darling."

"Repeat it again and I'll take your tongue." Narelle did not blush; she only got angry.

Sin's hands went up amiably. "Really, that is the best you could manage to garner their trust?"

"Their opinion is of no concern to me, and it was the easiest way," she declared. "Where were you?"

"That, like a great deal of things happening, is none of your business," Sin returned.

"That was a portal to the Twisting Nether."

"Then why ask where I went?"

She glowered at him. He wasn't in the mood to smirk, so he held out his hand to her. "Come along now. We'll keep up your illusion as far as the city wall, but we must hurry."

She hesitated. "Is it true what they said? About your mother?"

His lip turned up, as if he were amused, but it was a pained expression. "You cannot kill a true warlock so easily." That was all he said on it.

She took his hand, allowing him to pull her to his hip, and together they left the house. He locked the door with a spell, then moved into the city, letting them be seen together. Narelle was tense, unfamiliar with walking at someone's side. She said nothing.

Then Sin stopped, and around him erupted a purple shell of demonic summoning arts. His cursed staff was in his left hand, her at his right, but it was not tied to the spell he now worked. A few seconds later, his steed of flame, muscle, and bent steel galloped from the ground in a burst of flame and molten rock. He released her to take a step into the stirrup, then mounted it and offered his hand again.

She ignored it and made it up in a single leap, slipping behind him. "What is your plan?"

Sin took up the reigns, lashing them to the roar of his dreadsteed. "We are going to Northrend. We will be taking the fight to the old god."

Narelle's eyes widened, even as her hands clung to Sin to prevent being thrown off. "And the qiraji?"

"You don't think the silithid are only contained to southern Kalimdor, do you?"

Narelle said nothing. She had. Elune help them, they all had. They had suspected some tunnels had remained, ready to brooch the surface elsewhere, but... as far as Northrend? What else did Sin know, this master of the qiraji?

XxX

The sun was barely reaching high noon when they made it back to the camp. Dreadsteeds were far more hardy than even the mightiest Azerothian charger, and even when it had neared its limit, Sin had banished and resummoned the horse to a new, fresh physical body. Such was how it worked for minions of the Twisting Nether.

The camp was still where they had left it, hardly half a day ago, and it was in turmoil. The bandits had gathered up into two groups, Darnin's and Jern's, and they bickered at each other from invisible boundry lines as much as both together shouted at the qiraji Battleguards, hovering together near the base of a tree. Their scythes hung loose from their sleeves, ready to strike.

"-elf bitch slit his damned throat, and you did nothing to stop him, did ya!" someone was shouting, that Sin could hear as they came thundering in. Only a few even noticed their return, too eager to continue their dispute.

"-the fuck would we be following you or near you? Darnin, tell them to go their way and we'd go ours!" "The 'ell are we waitin' for, eh? Let's get the fuck outta here!" "Bleed them into the soil!"

Huh.

One of them who did notice, however, was Darnin. His tan veil covered his face and the top of his head, showing only his eyes, and he had sat cross legged between the two bickering groups patiently with his daggers on his knees. Jern was trying to argue back his followers, to no real avail. Upon catching sight of Sin's dreadsteed though, Darnin jumped to his feet, dragging the attention of Handon from where he was threatening to kill anyone who came close to their half of the division line.

At Darnin's movement, the people all looked to him, then to where he was headed. The whole collective lot of them fell silent at once when they noticed Sin standing there, tall on his flaming horse, with the night elf clinging to his back. His steed slowly clod forward, into the masses, while Darnin stepped up beside him.

"I'm surprised you waited," Sin commented. He hid his disappointment.

"I felt whatever took your attention enough to leave your qiraji behind was important. I stayed to keep blades from being needlessly drawn, and to hear whatever news you might bring. I have questions for you."

A cold dagger pressed against Sin's back, felt through the layer of his cloak of and robes. A finger tapped him twice there, but he only scowled away her threat.

Still, her point against Darnin's questions was valid. Sin said, "I'm sure you do, and I hardly want to be the one who answers them. Thank you for staying, but we are parting ways. Now."

The veiled face looked his way. There was no threat, no promise, no suggestion. Just a look. And it was far more dangerous than anything Narelle could conjure. Sin needed to deter him.

"I'm taking the qiraji back to Silithus. If you are so eager as to rejoin your old home, then come along, but their joy ride free is over."

There was a blur of Darnin's arms. Sin's dreadsteed shrieked loudly, abruptly jumping onto its hind legs. Both occupants fought to remain on, but then the horse – with a spray of demon blood coming from its neck – fell over to its side, threatening to crush them both. Narelly got her feet against the saddle and pushed, keeping her hold over Sin, and she pulled them both off to the jungle floor, landing roughly with him atop her.

They rolled aside both. Narelle ended on a knee, ready to lurch forward, but she stopped at the feel of long knives crossing before her own throat. She could smell the whiskey-breath of a certain dwarf as he purred behind her. Sin also got his staff planted on the ground before him, and smoke left his mouth at the same time his eyes ignited with a fiery glow around the iris.

He looked up to Darnin, the man who just killed his horse, ready to rip apart him and everyone behind him in a single spell. But as he raised _Shed'lahk,_ the bandit leader dropped both daggers and raised his hands, while commanding everyone to back away. He dropped himself to his knees, staring defiantly at Sin but completely defenseless.

There was only silence then, as Sin stood again, keeping his staff aimed at the human leader. Darnin said, "I meant no threat, but I need your attention now. We can part, and you will get your half of our supplies, but before then, I would have you tell me what is going on in our world. Miko died for your plotting, Specter. I would not have the same, simply because you like secrets:

"The qiraji leave Ahn'Qiraj in a suicide mission and expose their queen prematurely. The Battleguards ally themselves to a human, one responsible for much of their death in the War of the Shifting Sands. You leave with the one who would be your killer, abandoned those you show great responsibility for, and you return in a mad rush. The world is in motion once again, as it had been just prior to the war we both fought in. I no longer seek to be your enemy, Specter, but tell me what is going on up that mountain wall? Let me plan for my own future with an aware mind."

"Sin," Narelle warned, indifferent of the blades at her throat.

He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. "No... he has a right to know. They all do. Better they find out the truth from me than wild rumor in a few days." He put his fingers in his mouth to whistle, and the qiraji came up in a great storm to hover behind him, waiting. Sekara lowered herself to rest beside him, as did Ressact, on his other side.

"The qiraji's allegiance to me is a separate matter," Sin told Darnin then, noticing both Handon and Jern approaching to listen in. Everyone was now. "A civil war, that they were losing and wanted deliverance from."

"Sin," Narelle demanded. The daggers cut deeper against her throat.

It was well that she was detained, for otherwise she would certainly take action to prevent him from speaking. "I do not know where it came from, if it broke free in a single stroke or if it was summon, but-" Narelle pleaded one last time. "-an old god as appeared on the surface of Azeroth. One separate from C'Thun, your fallen god. One separate from Yogg-Saron, who died after. Perhaps it has come to take vengeance for its brothers, perhaps its random chance on our unfortunate world."

He shook his head, while Narelle fell into a deadly silence. "Now, you nihilistic bastards, you're free to make your choices. A new master has come for you to worship. I do not care what you decide, or how genuine you want to pretend. If you go to serve it, as the Twilight's Hammer does, you will soon find me at your doorsteps again. I am leaving now to take battle it and those who follow it, and I am leaving to gather to me all the blades I can once again."

Darnin did not move from his place in submission, but he said, "Things are different this time... The world is not as prepared as it once was for C'Thun's awakening. In fact, it sounds as if this one is already awake, at full strength."

A toothy grin from Sin. "Yes. It almost sounds like you'll have a better chance this time. Hold those words to your heart when I come for those who turn."

"Is that all the news you have to share?" Darnin asked mildly, appearing unphased by the news that had sent the rest of the bandits into a low murmur.

"It's all the news you need to make an educated decision."

"Then with your permission, Specter, I'd ask again if I may accompany you."

"To plant a dagger in my back later? Hah!"

"As I told you, I seek to be on the right side of the law this time, and I can think of no place better to prove it. My plans have not changed. And if we find victory, I believe there is no surer source to vouch for me than the Specter himself. This is a request from me, not the men who sought to follow me. They can make their own choices."

There was a nasally snort, and Handon spat into the soil. Sin did not question what he managed to spit out without saliva glands. "Well fuck me. That's where you want to go, Darnin? Well, so long as there's killing to be done, I'll keep on too. My blades are getting real thirsty."

Sin stared at them both with a steely gaze, until he looked to the subdued night elf. "Narelle?"

Loath though she was to say it, she admitted, "They appear... sincere."

How unexpected. The warden was not entirely impervious to lies, and Darnin certainly crafty enough to deceive her, but it spoke much of them. Handon would not have a change of heart – something had tied his loyalties impossibly close to Darnin, and he'd always love killing, but that only verified his trustworthiness if Darnin was genuine.

Still without moving, Darnin said, "Well, Jern, that leaves my boys with you. You lot know you'll be in safe hands with the Wind of the North. You've worked along side each other for some time now."

"Who says I don't intend to do the same as you?" the red bearded man demanded casually.

"And who says we don't intend to follow ya anyways you go, hmm?" the dwarfed that held Narelle captive asked, his voice humming in a self-amused manner.

The three bandit leaders looked over to him, seeing his lip turn up on one side. "What?" Louder, to be heard by all, he said, "You lot, we all know what it's like working under them oldy godlings. That so called "Great Master" crumbled to dust even with our help. And besides die, you all remember what we did? Dig, dig, and dig, then poison and kill some, then get yelled at as the entire fucking world worked against us, and then we died some more, at our own hands, and we dug some more... and then we were imprisoned in our own camps in some begotten desert.

"So if I ask yee who wants to join me in going back to that, which of you idiots is going to jump up with yer arms waving and say "aye!""

No one said anything, and his grin widened. "There, see. But let us be fair and realistic here. Some of yeh want to take your chances, and some of yeh don't want no more conflict. Let's do this, right now. If you fall into either of those two groups, you can leave right now – and not one of you ask a damned question. Let them go, to be done or to rejoin it. Alls fair, aye? The ramp out is right there for anyone."

There was a long moment of hesitation, with only a few beginning to move. Jern was nodding though, and he shouted harshly. "Go! Get out of here, you dirty mongrels! Go find some good water in some grassy lands and live free! Find some pretty, plump women and rediscover why we were born with cocks! We're free now, you hear, so get out of here!"

"Oi!" a female dwarf shouted back, as more were emboldened by his words. Her arms were akimbo. "I want me a man with some big, wide shoulders and a cock like a horse." That elicited laughter, and while a few dozen were moving to leave free, many more elected to stay. She was one of them, grinning ear to ear.

"Got one right here for you, lass," a man called back, and she looked to see it was only one of Handon's skeletal soldiers. He glanced down, then shrugged his bony shoulders. "Well, I _did_ have one." More laughter.

Nearly a hundred left them, around half of the bandits. Between those that remained and the qiraji, that left barely two hundred men. Some were leaving with supplies, but Sin let them go. They would need it more than him. He gestured for Darnin to stand, and he commanded the dwarf off of Narelle.

The warden was silent again, her silver eyes like chips of ice, as she stared at him through her hawk mask.

Darnin recovered his daggers, nodding to the men around them. "I didn't know most of those boys anyways. You who stayed, I know you. I think I can trust you too." He paused when he stood before one, a human male with his head similarly wrapped and veiled, wearing sun-faded grey pants and a vest. An eye blink later, the hooked dagger was shoved up under the youth's chin and into his brains. Darnin whipped it out to a splatter of red blood, mixing with the glowing fel blood of Sin's dreadsteed.

As the boy fell to the forest floor, dead, he said, "Except this guy. He'd have betrayed us the first time we shut our eyes near him."

Jern released a disgusted snort, but he didn't argue, only took a glance at those that stayed for him. His men were different than Darnin's though, like that sassy dwarf woman. His showed restraint, showed humane conduct, at least to a greater extent than Darnin's. These were the ones that wanted to start a civilization with him in Silithus; the rest had joined Miko in the schism. None of Handon's skeletal force left, all loyal to their cleaver-wielding leader.

Sin shook his head at the murder of the boy who elected to stay. "Ever heard of due process of detainment and suspicion? Question first, kill second?"

"No," Darnin returned simply, with only a bit of cheek.

A wry smile appeared on Narelle's face. "I like this one."

Sin took another look at all who remained, at all who were willing to follow him. Certainly, the one hundred bandits was more than the forty man raid he had accompanied to fight C'Thun, but they were far less talented than that group of heroes – people like him – with far less extensive range of skills. Still, they were men and women of the desert, and appropriately hardened. He could do far worse, if they weren't to betray him in a crucial moment. Narelle, he was sure, would be glad to make a round through the camp and eliminate those intent on it.

With _Shed'lahk_ gripped tightly in a fist, Sin announced, "Then if we are all finished, it's time to move. We go north."

"To Northrend, yes," Jern drawled. "But don't we need to get out of the crater up that ramp first?"

Sin's dark eyes gleamed at that – only Narelle noticed that the fire that had burned there was gone. With one lip turned up, he resummoned his dreadsteed, and after convincing the beast to not trample Darnin to death, announced, "There is a better way, one far more efficient, though it's going to take all of us to bully the qiraji to it. The titans have left us a stargate, connecting here to the exotic jungle of Sholazar Basin. I hope you lot aren't tired of green just yet."

None understood what he meant, even Narelle, but that was alright. After mounting his steed again, he shouted, "Come along now! We go north!"


	15. Chapter 13: The Fool King

**Important note:** I just performed four or five updates all at once. If you are you to "skip to latest chapter" like many of us are, you really need to go back a ways to get it in order. For most of you, that will be Drekthac's "Valhalas," which is the first of today's many updates. For others, you will want "A Changed World," which is Thomas' chapter I posted yesterday, if you haven't read it yet.

**BE SURE YOU'VE READ THE CHAPTERS BEFORE THIS!**

* * *

Chapter 13

_Fool King_

* * *

X Beacon X

The rest of the day was spent putting the Argent Vanguard to rest. Balinda's comment about even the stones not surviving the attack proved to be less exaggerated than expected. The foundations of buildings, the supporting columns, every arch and cornerstone, all splintered and cracked clean through until whatever they supported fell.

They found no corpses to redeem, no bodies to bury. Instead, made a circular zygarot from the remaining stone in the center of the town, where that tainted black circle was that had held the enemy's banner. A former stonemasen carved a short plague in memorial and they mounted it on the stone wall of the zygarot just as dark was falling.

Nothing could be salvaged from the city; the enemy had made sure of it. When their work was finished, Malthon had them move away from the graveyard-city and back into the heart of the vale. They broke camp over the snow, raising tents and picket walls from the ravaged fortifications of the war.

Everyone wished to hear Balinda's report, but with two hundred ears, she would need to be surrounded and shout out her words. Quietly, she told Malthon she'd have none of that. Jayce told Malthon to permit military structure, where he and select officers or commanders could hear, and then each pass on the word to those beneath them, so all could hear. Malthon and Balinda both were against the idea – paladins did not march under fellow paladins. This was Malthon's mission, so they followed him as comrades, but he was no general, no king, to possess their loyalty and discipline.

Eventually, Balinda summoned certain men and women from the army, including Malthon, Jayce, and their last churchyard friend Terichon Galean. It was a total of fifteen that entered the wide command tent, with Balinda and Malthon in the center. Malthon noticed both Ironhawk's present, Arvin and Bardin, in addition to the one female dwarf that marched with them.

What Jayce was to Malthon, Jenn Stoutmantle was to Balinda. The dwarf was closer to Balinda, actually. They were friends, companions, but Jenn always deferred to Balinda in direction and decision making. They had been traveling together through all Northrend, Malthon knew, and perhaps met even before. They came together when her party joined his, on his way to New Hearthglen.

When Balinda started, though she spoke aloud for the room, it was clear she was speaking directly to Malthon:

"Let me say now, our foe is not of the forest, nor is their threat contained in it. Alas, they are hardly present in Crystalsong at all! Storm Peaks is their central, though from where I still do not know."

"What are they?" Malthon asked. "How many can we expect?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "But I saw many crawling over the snow. They come in different sizes and shapes, and I guess strengths. Not all are like that we faced in Crystalsong – some are less fearsome. Some are more so. I feel the brewing of a great storm, that which will sunder the world in ways even the Scourge could not."

"A Fourth War?" Jayce asked quietly. Those from Lordaeron showed especial discomfort at the idea.

Balinda nodded once. "If these creatures mass together and move south, it will be so. By the state of the Vanguard, I fear it has already begun. Worst still, it does not take much of them to do damage." Each of them recalled the battle against the one in the forest. "In the corrupted span of Crystalsong, one of them shattered a crystal tree, using a spell I knew not. Not even the strength of that forest could oppose it."

"Light, protect us," someone uttered, voice betraying the same shock that overtook them all. The crystal trees were vast, ancient colossi that floated and spun under their arcane-corrupted magicks. They were central points of major power. The corrupted creatures of the forest flocked to them like flies to carcasses.

Terichon's soft voice rose up, marred with defeat: "First the orcs, then the Burning Legion, then the Scourge, and now this. This world is steeped with adversaries that seek to destroy it."

"And we have preserved through each of them, Terry. This one will be no different," Malthon gently argued. To Balinda, he asked, "Is there any connection between these and that... Death God that Rhonin spoke of during the war? Saron-something, that's blood made saronite, who was holed up in Ulduar?"

"Yogg-Saron," Balinda clarified, and her stormy eyes seemed to glow with a new fire. "And I would like to find out. I never ventured that far north."

"No," Malthon answered immediately. "No more chasing after shadows. We are in the Scourgelands now, and we must maintain our focus. Baneful though it sounds, the Scourge will even serve as a buffer between us and these darklings. First, we do as we came here for – we seek out each remaining town and city and bring deliverance before they end up like the Vanguard – and once the stranded are free of the Onslaught Harbor, we will send the weary, the civilians, and the wounded south to New Hearthglen. After that, we can make our stand against this new threat."

"You do nah process the authority to command Lady Crowngarde as you please, Mistah Eyenhart," Jenn Stoutmantle declared, sitting with her arms crossed on her stool. Her dwarven accent was heavy.

"On this expedition, he does," Arvin returned in a low growl, from behind Malthon. "The gryphon is his to loan out, and each of us came here on request to help his cause. If you do not like that, lassy, then you are free to leave." Jenn glared at him, blowing red strands of hair from her eyes.

When Balinda did not reprimand Jenn's outburst, Malthon decided to decline the same for Arvin. Balinda stayed quiet, clearly mulling some other plan over, so he asked, "How were you hurt?"

Her attention returned to him. "Two nights ago, I camped at a nook in the mountains, thinking myself safe. Not even the Light's warning could prepare me for the ambush that came. It took too much effort just to kill one, especially while trying to keep Cloudrend from harm, so I fled instead. I haven't had time to clean up. That was the only conflict that was involved, but there always seemed something ready to prevent me from landing. It has been much riding and little rest."

And she was ready for a second round of it. Light, but Balinda was a monster of willpower and strength.

"Anything else you would like to report of this foe? Names, faces, anything more specific than a massing in Storm Peaks?"

Balinda nodded twice, slowly. She had a thoughtful drawl as she declared, "That reluctance of the Light we felt, it comes from this adversary. More importantly, the feeling did not diminish in the flight from Storm Peaks to here. There is something on the glacier waiting for us, down the road. Everyone needs to keep the Light close."

Peachy, but nothing unexpected. "Any other questions for our sister?" he asked those around them. No one said anything. "Then

let's clear out. Balinda, you get some rest. You've Light-blasted earned it." Seeing her without comment, not even a quick "don't tell me what to do," said numbers about her state at the present. Her eyes stared blankly more often than not.

They cleared out.

XxX

After returning his iron dinner plate to his chest, Malthon took to a short patrol through the camp. He met with each station of nightwatch, speaking to the men who's turn it was, hearing their concerns and words. After, he made his way back to his tent, ready to sleep himself, but in passing Balinda's tent, he paused.

He felt an urge to visit her, to speak privately and check up on her, but he assumed her already asleep. She truly must have been exhausted to leave her candle lit while sleeping. So he thought, before seeing a shadow pass over the orange line beneath her tent flap. Emboldened, he approached.

Voices inside the tent stopped him just at the threshold, and he paused to listen.

"He may be bright as a log," a female, accented voice was saying. Jenn. "But his heart be in the right place, milady. You need sleep. I cah handle the rest of the work meself."

Balinda's voice was steady and stern, as it always was: "Just a few more minutes."

Malthon lowered his hand from the tent flap and turned away, leaving them to their privacy. He didn't know what he'd been thinking anyways, visiting Balinda in her tent. They weren't that way anymore, and even if he wished they were, she had moved well beyond him. She was sworn to celibacy.

He managed three steps before an angry shape blocked his path. There was no warning from the Light, so he did not flinch, but the sudden appearance did startle him. Human shape, arms folded, and excessively feminine without any blocky armor. The image clicked in his mind, just as she began shouting.

Malthon blinked at the harsh whispers and accusations that rose in a sudden flurry – all in the unintelligible elven tongue. Though fierce in tone, she kept her words quieted to prevent alerting others. Her right armed waved animatedly, gesturing to the tent a few times, while he stared gobsmacked. She slapped her forehead and drawled out a rather familiar sounding string of words, then turned away from him, only to turn her head back and glare with her silver eyes.

"Now you look here," he tried in response, sounding unsure even to himself. He paused then. "...What?"

Stubbing her finger at him, she outlined five words. He couldn't pronounce any of them if he'd practiced. "Yeah, well _denor seetah_ yourself, broad, or whatever you said. You were supposed to stay in the forest, like all the good little ghosts there."

Fortunately, he was not the only one completely baffled by the others language. She did not react to his words other than blink. And try imitating him in turn: "Good leeter goats."

He did not ponder the absurdities in her accosting of him. "Why are you even here?"

"_Malthon Eyenhart,"_ she addressed, in the full hiss of his name.

"Ghosty ghost," he returned dryly. He tried looking for shafts of moonlight through her, but it was impossible in the cloudy sky. He stepped aside to see a torch through her torso.

She said nothing as he squinted, struggling to spot any sign of the torch past her, until he shrugged and decided to leave her be. She could go haunt Jayce instead. The somber man needed the company.

He managed only a few steps before she jumped in his way again, vehemently spitting words at him. Her hands continued gesturing towards Balinda's tent. The cogs in his mind turned, until his eyebrows rose high and he asked, "Are you... jealous of Balinda?"

She did not understand, but he felt he caught the gist of it. His hand dragged down his face. "Go away," he groaned. He walked around her, intent at escaping her fury. She was relentless, following him even to his tent, and though he tried to force the flap between them, she only pushed through after, continuing her rant at him.

"Light, woman, I'm not your lover," he complained, giving her a shooing motion. She gasped at him, hand falling over her thinly veiled breasts, and then her rant began with new fervor.

After lighting some candles, he was given a better look at her. Her purple was deep, like the shade of the sky near the end of twilight, with raven-dark blue hair left free. Her silver eyes were _bright_, seeming to glow with their own luminescence within, and they had no black pupils to diminish the effect. She was, admittedly, quite pretty, even in her aggressive disposition, carrying all the usual fine-featured and slenderness of the elves. Her gown, however, was simply unacceptable – might as well be wearing nothing at all!

But most shocking was the realization that came soon after. Clothes not withstanding, she was in no way transparent. Malthon stared mutely for a second, then said, nearly as quickly as she was speaking, "Wait just a ticket here, you aren't a ghost? You're a kaldorei _survivor?_"

She paused at the change in his response, with her eyebrows lowering in a narrow, thoughtful gaze. Her arms folded beneath a rather womanly sized bosom, adding to their shape.

Malthon continued, "Look, we need some translation in here real fast, lassy. I'm sorry for whatever slight you think I caused you, and we certainly have enough problems without adding you to the plate – granted, I might need to thank you for your help in the forest – but I really... And, you have no idea what I'm saying." He concluded to himself, turning away with a shake of his head.

Warm fingers touched his chin, threading through his beard, and turned his head back to her. She had stepped in close, and now her head had a curious tilt to the side. "Sorry?" she asked, repeating the word with surprising accuracy. Unless she meant some elven _"saree" _or_ "sahri."_

Assuming the former, he nodded, pointing to himself, and feeling like a loon. "I'm sorry."

"Malthon sorry," she agreed, nodding – it was a very eager, birdlike tilting of her chin. A wide, beautiful smile overtook her lips.

Malthon smile too. "I'm glad we have that sorted out. I guess you managed to pick that word up around ca- mph!" She pulled his face to hers as she stepped in and kissed him, cutting off his words.

The shouting began again after he threw her outside his tent.

XxX

Hrothgar's Landing, it was called, that nub of land jutting from the blue plane of ocean below. It was strange recalling the time when those rippling waters were thrashing with monstrous leviathons, with narrow elven ships and hulking kvaldir ones. He couldn't see it in his mind anymore, staring down there now as he had a year and a half prior.

He recalled then taking one of the Argent Crusade's gryphons, and like a key to what was hidden, his mind filled again with a sudden rush of memories. His stomach had dropped the moment the bird pitched over the icy edge, dropping in free fall a thousand feet before icy waters and jagged cliff. The bird's wings snapped out, catching the roaring wings, and his stomach once again felt the change of momentum as it swooped outward.

Around him, other gryphons and their riders swooped down with him, all of them wielding flaming harpoon guns. The dwarves had adapted vrykul technology for them, he had been told. Together, their small contingent of white birds approached the waters, where beyond a massive battle raged. Ships clashed against ships, the sounds of muskets and inhuman roars reaching them even this far.

First, they reached the water line, where it slapped about in white caps, and they soared over it, heading towards the battle. Then Malthon had looked down, into the water, as a dark shape caught his attention. An eye was staring back. A second later, his mind connected the rest of the picture, seeing a beast hundreds of feet long paralleling their flight from just below the water, and it's eye was the size of his body.

He grew sick to his stomach with fear, even against the surging Light within – not even all the Light he could command would help him against this monster. _"UP!"_ he cried out, drawing the attention of the riders as he pulled hard on the reigns. _"Fly UP!"_

Hell's Bells.

The leviathan breached the surface, sending the other gryphon riders into screaming panic. Several were struck by its hulking body, with thick flesh like an oiled dinosaur. The gryphons, shrieking now, struggled to ascend higher, but as it's head rose above the water line, jaw open, some were too slow, and it chomped down in a gush of red blood over an unfortunate rider.

The Light did away with Malthon's own fears then, and he was bidden to raise his harpoon gun and begin firing, only yards from this colossal horror. The remaining riders came to their senses upon seeing the harpoons ripping into its flesh easily, each blow staggering this behemoth, and together they worked at bringing it down.

Then, Malthon was standing at the edge of the cliff again, without ship or beast in sight. Only pale water and a dark sky, with a distant rock of ice in the distance. He drew a calm breath of frozen air, lungs burning at it, and exhaled a drawn out wisp of white fog. His skin had goosebumped under his armor, leaving him uncomfortable and itchy, wishing he could rub some heat back into them.

Perhaps it was for the best that he did not remember such days.

"Really, I don't know how you didn't starve during the war without a woman," a feminine voice sighed behind him.

Malthon turned his head to see Balinda there, and she offered him a plate – his plate – of food. Balinda recovered well from her excursion, with no signs of her previous wounds or stains anywhere, just two days later. Her personality had fallen into its usual manner since then as well.

He accepted the food and thanked her. In truth, he was ravenous. He'd forgotten to break his fast that morning, instead re-plotting his course on his map in the rest before the march, though how Balinda knew, he wasn't sure. Perhaps she only knew he missed dinner.

The Argent Tournament had packed up their coliseum long ago, but base grounds remained in a battery camp for those who still fought. The location had assumed the name to Tournament Grounds for familiarity, though no tournaments still went on here. Unlike the larger Vanguard, the Grounds remained intact with full stock and supply, manned by near a hundred Argent Crusaders.

Malthon sat on the icy ledge he had stood above, and he gestured for Balinda to sit with him. They spoke while he ate, falling back into the habit of it again. Their reunion, just before New Hearthglen, proved to repair some of the rapports between them. Malthon did not mind it as much as Jayce did.

The war effort was not going well, according to the crusaders here. When they heard report of the Argent Vanguard burning, they assumed it was the Scourge; apparently, something stirred them up into a strange restlessness, and what few remained were banding together for violent rampages. The Argent Crusade's systemic method of elimination that they had been following was put to a grinding halt, as actual conflicts and battles began to erupt again as they had during the war.

The towns further south, in the heart of the land, where still in jeopardy, if they remained at all. Malthon had spoken to Lord Goldwind, suggesting they break down the battery for travel. They were not safe, this close to Storm Peaks, and Lord Eyenhart wished to band together all the crusaders he could to send the weary home and establish new outposts less susceptible to danger. Goldwind was informed of the new threat brewing to the east.

The high elf paladin listened to Malthon, and he promised to sleep on the proposal. It was no small matter, abandoning Icecrown's only battery. Any adventurer or lone crusader that came for refuge would find only snow where he expected supplies and rest. The usual reserve would be left behind in a fox hole, and appropriately marked for wayward travelers, but such was a hefty decision.

Malthon looked over at the sound of heavy plate crunching against ice, and he saw Balinda laying on her back now, staring up into the stormy, darkening clouds. Her red cape had been pulled high enough to pillow her head from the ice. He recognized the intent, pondering expression, following their chat, and after setting aside his cleared iron plate, asked, "Copper for your thoughts?"

"You're going to need a lot of copper," she muttered idly, unperturbed. From his pocket, Malthon fished a Lordaeron gold coin and flipped it to her.

Balinda caught it in a fist and turn it over in the fingers of her gauntlet. She smiled slightly, a rare expression. "The past, the present, the future... and all the topics that fall into those three. I have a busy mind."

"The past, huh?" he asked, curiosity tweaked. "How far back?"

"Too far."

Malthon snorted. "Too far would be us trying to fish with our bare hands in the river outside my estates, three years old and naked, until you slipped on your clumsy feet and got rushed away in the current."

With distant eyes, Balinda's smile widened at the memory. "Your father was the one who had to catch me, with you running at his side the whole way."

"Aye, and when we scooped you out of the water, shivering and crying, you remember what he said?" Her eyes shifted to him, waiting, as his smile threatened to slip free early. In perfect likeness to his father, he deepened his voice an octave further and shouted, ""You might be bare-ass as a fish, but you sure as the Bell's of Hell cannot swim like one!"

Balinda laughed. Malthon started at the sound, nearly forgetting what her chuckle sounded like, especially as she caught herself and ended up snorting once. She was shameless over the sound, laying sprawled out in her armor, but it sent Malthon into his own rich chuckling. Before puberty, they had been told their laughter sounded exactly alike, except she snorted if she wasn't careful. He had found it cute.

Still did.

In the lands of the Scourge, their mirth sobered very quickly, but Malthon was left feeling at ease with her, for the first time in years. This was someone he had grown up knowing, and she could still acknowledge the fact.

There was silence once again between them, until a voice called from behind, "Sir Malthon Eyenhart!"

Here at the battery, they weren't all paladins anymore. Many of the defenders and administrators were regular men, who came to the Light's call. To them, all paladins were sirs and dames.

They turned to see the approaching messenger, with the Argent Crusade tabard flapping over his simple tunic and breeches. When he reached them, he bowed deeply to both. Malthon asked, "What is it, lad?"

"Lord Commander Goldwind wishes for your presence in his private quarters. He says he has a matter of importance to discuss with you," the squire said. The boy was young, and though he stood with a stiffened spine an squared shoulders, it was not tense with unfamiliarity. Malthon noted a budding strength in the youth's build; he was in training.

"May I have a guest accompany me?" he asked, gesturing to Balinda beside him.

The boy hesitated. "He did not specify, milord."

Balinda waved a dismissive hand at Malthon. "Always trying to drag me into the political scene, Malthon. I told you, I'm having none of it. You don't need to fret over my presence; I won't be going."

The boy bowed again in reply. Malthon huffed and pushed himself to his feet again. "I didn't have much of a choice in it myself." He offered his hand to help Balinda stand. Their armor was a heavy burden.

She ignored the offer, also pushing herself up. One gauntlet fell on his shoulder as she mentioned softly, "You've done a fine job with what was forced into your hands. Your father would be proud of your representation of the Eyenhart name."

A complement, from Balinda. Just what kind of mood was she in! Malthon stared after her departing form until she disappeared on the battery grounds. It was then the boy reminded him of his waiting presence. "Erm... milord?"

"Boy, let me tell you one piece of golden wisdom, the secret of the world around you as even a lord knows it," Malthon started. The squire's eyes gleamed at the opportunity, and he nodded. Malthon rumbled gravely, "You will never, in all your life, come to understand women."

The youth's eager expression fell, and he began to lead Malthon to the quarters while Malthon chuckled softly from behind.

XxX

"Ah, Lord Eyenhart, welcome," Lord Goldwind greeted as Malthon was let inside. They both wore their armor, embossed as lords' were, so Malthon did not feel any discomfort at it. Goldwind nodded to the squire, dismissing him, and the boy left with another bow. "Forgive the late summons, but I feel it is a revelation of some importance."

"Think nothing of it, brother," Malthon told the high elf commander. "The Light knows no timetable."

Standing at six foot five, the elf stood even taller and broader than Malthon himself. Armor always veiled bodies, but elven women were not the only ones to carry idealized proportions – he had the narrow waist and wide, wide shoulders of his kind, trained to be even larger. Goldwind might have been considered handsome once, before the war. Now, under his long golden hair was an angular face shredded with nicks and scars, the most noticeable of which ran from left temple down over his nose to his lip. It must have been an ugly wound, to heal that wide even with magic.

The scar stretched noticeably when Goldwind smiled. He kept no beard, keeping the clean shaven appearance his kind liked to tout. "Indeed. I have heard much good word proceeding you, and in your short time here I can see why. The Light is... different in you. Stronger, shining like the midnight star."

Or a beacon. Malthon had heard it all before. "We all serve as we can. What thoughts ail you, friend?"

Goldwind nodded, inviting Malthon over to his map that stretched over a table in the center of the room. "Your darklings do, and my experience in similar affairs. I'd appreciate a more suiting name for them, something official if you don't mind. Which appeals most to you: the old common word "Daemon," "Skinless" from the faceless wanderers, "Lightless," or a simple "Shadow?""

Remembering their trademark black skin, Malthon mentioned, "Footmen and those hearing only rumor would benefit most from labeling them Shadows, but I believe the name would fall into misuse, fear-mongering, and simple confusion. I'd have them called Skinless, if they are indeed connected to the Death God of Ulduar."

"Skinless it is," Goldwind concluded. "With the rise of these Skinless, other forces will soon be sure to move, if the past is any indication. Do you remember the sudden rise of the Twilight's Hammer just before the freedom of Yogg-Saron here in Northrend? Or Burning cults with the imminence of the Legion?"

"We had enough on our plates in Lordaeron when the Legion threat was happening, but I heard the reports. You are afraid of a following rising behind these Skinless?"

Goldwind nodded somberly. "I doubt any cult will ever gain the pervasive influence that the Cult of the Damned had ever again, but their problem is real even in small scales. Once they decide to permeate our men and poison us from within, or organize in to a guerrilla task force... I think the reaction of our Scarlet... allies will be the least of our worries when we march against the Skinless."

Light knew how awful the Cult of the Damned had been. "What do you propose we do about it?"

Goldwind collapsed onto his stool recklessly. Malthon was surprised the wooden legs didn't snap at the weight of him and his armor. With a shrug, Goldwind asked, "What can we do, Lord Eyenhart? I'm only speculating a strong possibility."

"At the least, we can hope this Light-shaking effect remains constant. That will give us some clues at least, at close proximity," Malthon replied. He stopped to look over the map, at Storm Peaks. There were many places an enemy could hide there. The titans had too many holes, too many labs and bunkers and workshops, built into and under the mountains. The peaks themselves were already an impossibility for an army – no supply carts or wagons could be taken past the goblin city K9. Staging an attack there would be a march through hell.

"Yes, well, we shall see in the coming days, certainly," was the shrewd reply. Softer, Goldwind added, "Secondly, I'd like to readdress the problem of leadership here in Northrend. The Ashbringer, Dalaran, the Alliance and Horde – everyone has cleared out, it seems. The largest forces still out here seem to be us that invested too much into the war to depart now, and the death knights of the Ebon Blade. I think nearly half of them felt some obligation to remain out here and in the Shadow Vault, in Icecrown and near the Lich King.

"The Scarlets lost their High General. We lost our Ashbringer. The two of us, we are lords, and Lankral is a duke, but whom can we all, even the two of us, look to for leadership? Whom can promote unity among the remaining forces? It is said those vrykul champions at Ymirheim have no leader, only common cause; we cannot function to the same efficiency as them without one."

"We have common cause, but all too different methods," Malthon agreed. "What do you propose? Do you have someone in mind whom could take up the mantle of High General? A King of Northrend?"

Goldwind's smile stretched his scar again. "Yes, indeed I do. Someone who would loath the position, with no ambition for such rank and prestige, but would serve it dutifully and with wisdom. Someone even paladins could look to for command and guidance."

Malthon blinked. He hadn't heard of anyone with such personal influence still remaining in these begotten lands. "Who is this person? I'd like to judge his or her character myself."

"Then simply look into a mirror, Lord Eyenhart."

There was a beat of pause. Then, "No. Absolutely not."

Goldwind seemed amused; Malthon certainly was not. "There is none, I feel, more suited to the task. Pray tell why you should not take up sole, undisputed leadership of our remaining forces?"

"Balinda!" Malthon started, holding up a finger. "She'd tan my hide from the Frozen Throne to Lordaeron city and back before bending knee to me. Jenn Stoutmantle!" A second finger. "The death knights." He stopped there, shaking his head. "That isn't how I want my men, my brothers and sisters, to behave around me. We are all equals in the Light, all kin. We should stand together as such, not one elevated above the rest. We can do as I've already done, and take only the paladins back into the Storm Peaks after sending the rest of the peoples to safety."

"And who determines how and where we fight, Lord Eyenhart? Do we hold a triumvirate council? Two paladins and a death knight? Lankral will not allow himself to miss out on the opportunity."

"I am a paladin first, Lord Goldwind, and a lord second. I will not reverse the order."

The elf remained bemused at his insistence. "And that, brother, is precisely why you are the prime candidate for the position. You do not know ambition, only duty."

Balinda should have accepted his invitation to join him here!

He spent a long moment in silence, brooding over the offer. He needed calm, rational thought here. Even though he desired that all brothers and sisters saw themselves as equals, sometimes it was necessary for someone to stand up. This was not a perfect world, he knew well. Finally, he answered slowly, "Until such time as that position is absolutely necessary for our success, I will not take it up. On this, I will allow no argument."

Goldwind lost his smile, but he nodded his acceptance. "So be it, Lord Eyenhart. Time will tell what the Light holds in store for all of us."

Malthon nodded absently, letting those words bounce around his skull. "If you don't mind, I'd like to return to my own quarters now."

"By all means, you are free to go," Goldwind said, standing from the stool. They nodded to each other, and Malthon left.

Aye, a king he'd be. A Fool King.

XxX

Malthon doubted he had ever witnessed such a team of hardened soldiers. There was no softness to them, not in armor, not in expression, not even in skin. Even the gnome, his missing eye covered with a heavy patch, and his armor with the worn appearance of a training post, with a sword longer than he was tall, demonstrated none of the childlike demeanor of his kind. His green hair was cropped short in military cut, his facial hair of similar close trim.

"They come down 'ere in sport," a dwarf told them. "When they get bored. We are all that's left of those they couldn't kill." He spat black tobacco onto the snow.

A full score of them – only a score was left. Light, have mercy on them.

After sleeping on it, Goldwind agreed to Malthon's proposal, ordering the battery broken down and a fox hole dug and supplied. It took them two days of work, so after a third night sleeping on the grounds, they left together in a horde now three hundred strong. Plenty of horses had been stabled there, but not enough for over a hundred additions at the small battery. It took a day to cross the icy plains to the edge before the canyon of blight that ran through the heart of the glacier.

Once they managed the climb from the plateau into the blight-covered canyon, they spent the remaining few hours traveling further south, just before Ymirheim territory, and stopped again as the dark began to deepen. It wouldn't do well to chance those lands at night. It wasn't much further south that they found the camp of Alliance, and a small few Horde, soldiers.

From the hundreds that had been stationed here to siege the vrykul city, only twenty remained. But Light, these 7th Legion men were the hardest Malthon had ever met. The three Horde, an orc and two troll beserkers, had taken up the insignias of the 7th Legion – they had garnered the respect and trust of these stone-faced warriors. That spoke volumes about their skill and tenacity.

"Well, we are giving you a choice now," Malthon told them. "No vrykul can pin your down with three hundred men at your back. Any who wishes to go free, to find home or battle elsewhere, can march on with us."

All twenty laughed. The sound was like stones scraping over stones. The orc leaned forward – he was seated on an icy boulder, beside one of their few supply crates, with his two-handed sword planted into the ice before him. "It would take only a small party of them to see your "tree hundwed" torn into slimy bits."

A bolt of Light thundered down from overhead, slamming into Malthon. It's radiance peeled off of his skin like an aura, and his Lordaeron shield shone with brilliant, blinding Light, in the sigil of a cross-like dagger. "Fifty are groundkeepers, keeps, squires, and servicemen. The rest of us are full paladins. Two hundred and fifty Light-blessed knights. Never, orc, in all the history of Azeroth has such a potent force stood before you as you see now. Let them come, even the Ymirjar. Such would be a battle for endless history books to come."

Silence from the Legion men. Eventually, the dwarf spat more black, sniffing his bulbous nose, and he demanded, "Yeah? Where were you a year ago, when we were a dozen times this number?"

Malthon looked to him, lips drawn thin. "Disarrayed, without order or purpose. The past is in the past though, no matter the scars, and what is lost, is lost. Again, any who wish to leave this rotting hole is free to do so. You will not be challenged by the vrykul."

A final spit, then the dwarf's cloak fanned about him as he bent down to pick up his battered, darkened rifle from the snow – its steel nose bent and chipped, the scope cut off to two nubs – and he shouldered it in a practiced motion. At the action, the orc ripped free his sword, swinging off the chunks of slushy ice from its grimy blade, and he stood as well, grabbing the crate beside him under one massive arm.. The other Legion men did the same, grabbing weapons and supplies, and they stood.

Malthon nodded to them, still bursting with Light, and they all nodded back. No mounts remained among them for these men. Their speed wouldn't slow any further because of them, Malthon suspected. Malthon stepped into Crown's stirrup and mounted him.

His arm rose above his head, glistening with white light, and he shouted loud enough for any Ymirheim scout to hear, "Forward!"

The marched on, north now, to skirt around the vrykul mountain. They were unopposed.

XxX

Aldur'thar, the Desolation Gate. It's long, saronite arm reached from the northern vault all the way south to the steppes below Ymirheim city. A mile of cold saronite walling, stretching a hundred spans high of face the whole way, except for the single, smoldering gateway in its center.

The Scourge that skittered about in their way was smashed apart, holing no threat to their mounted charges, and even the bloated abominations exploding into their parts again through blasts of Light. At the gate, they expected a standing guard or a gathering of dark forces. They were not disappointed.

However, Arvin was quick to note it wasn't the Scourge that stood watch of the gateway, not the Scourge that watched from the ramparts. Blackness, he declared to them. The Skinless.

"Ey ho! Shades abound, boys!" one of the 7th Legion men announced.

"Cavalry, charge!" Malthon roared after. The footmen would have to find their own way in this battle.

The 7th Legion Commander, however, was not one for idle waiting, "On your marks, men! Get those Shades off the walls!"

Shortly into their charge, explosions sounded behind Malthon, and he could here the echoing cracks of their guns and that of ricochet. Several Skinless pitched off the wall, struck, while others retreated back. Those at the gate were already facing them. Whatever sounds they made couldn't be heard over the thunder of their horses.

At thirty yards before the collision, Light rained down over the paladins. It pooled and shone over them, gleaming off steel and shields, and their heavy cloaks of red, blue, and white whipped behind them with new energy. Above, the perpetual storm of Icecrown broke, allowing a circle of sunlight to break free of its mask and bless the men below, and it shone directly into the green eyes of the Skinless – into those that had them.

Jayce rode at Malthon's side as he overtook Arvin – the dwarf was a scout, not a leader, and he joined in the main body – but then Lord Goldwind was there at Malthon's left, accepting equal responsibility in the point. Sir Denell Goldwind was his name, when he waved off his lordship in favor of Malthon.

With all the storm of the Light raging within him, Malthon gathered together a burst of Holy Shock to open with. Those Skinless before them, ready for the hit, were disintegrated at the punch, and just after, the erect ones, without eyes, opened their maws for sonic blasts in attempt to chase away their Light.

Even Jayce managed to hold onto the Light then, and together, they three smashed their weapons into the hides of the Skinless that they could reach. The impact.

Like a charge into Scourge, it was not a battle of man against man. Skinless leapt from the floor in attempt to drag riders off their chargers. Jayce caught one on his shield, and the Light that armored it sent the Skinless recoiling off in a violent counter, smoking as it fell.

Crown trampled over a low Skinless, accepting its claws that raked over the plated breast, and Malthon swung side to side with his mace to keep back the others as Crown continued forward, towards the open gate, through the hordes. The other paladins roared with war cries as they also reached the masses, and a new violence of sound erupted behind him.

In only a few of those slow, powerful seconds, Malthon and Crown were through the black mob, gaining the crated-ground of the gate, and he turned with his mace high to shine as a beacon for those behind him. Many cheered, if they weren't presently engaged. It was only for a few moments that Malthon stood there, with Crown rearing up in victory, and he watched the tidings of the battle in it.

The 7th Legion was nearly there as well, running on booted feet with weapons drawn and their own cry outdoing even the hundreds of paladins. He saw Denell as well, engaging one of the eredar-shaped Skinless, like that they had faced in Crystalsong. The lord was easily noticed in his bright and elegant armor. His weapon of choice was a sword, and it wove about even on a clumsy steed with all the grace of the high elves. The sword suited their kind far more than maces.

Malthon charged back into the battle, even as others also broke free of the mob. They outnumbered the Skinless many times, and just in passing through, the cavalry crushed their forces, but some proved far more resilient than what a few passing blows could manage. It was especially so for those that Malthon couldn't spot the green-flamed eyes of, like the hulking eredar-shape ones or even the armored... he'd guess void lord, with a body of smooth-shaped and bloating shadows. It had a vague elemental shape.

A rider joined him, packed close to his side, as he charged at the void lord. A wispy tendril of black snapped out like a shot from a cannon towards them, and although the Light had clearly warned his companion rider to block, he or she was knocked clean off with a sound like a gong.

Malthon's mace swept through the tentacle, severing it, and it dispersed like a cloud of smoke. He didn't know if he'd done any damage to the creature. Now, the cacophony of Skinless exploding in their acid bomb deaths added to the orchestra of battle – he had nearly forgotten the horror of that trait – but his focus was singular, sharpened further by the Light. It seemed to take comfort in _his_ presence for once, rather than vice versa.

He resided its quaking roar, then led Crown directly into its essence, crashing into its body like a missile of Light. Crown couldn't hold his footing, and he began to pitch aside, but the Skinless was also knocked back, releasing a loud grunt at the collision. Before Malthon could be forced into the ground, he let Crown dissipate back into the Light, vanishing from under him, and he hit the ground with a roll.

Jumping up again, Malthon demanded the Light's return to him, and from the circle of sunlight above, another bolt of Holy Light slammed into him, empowering him. He swung his mace through its astral body, sending motes of shadow spilling into the snowy ground. Like their blood, the motes took to dissolving away the ice.

There was a whisper of warning, and Malthon called down the shield of the divine upon him, just before a colossal wave of oily shadows washed over him. It obscured everything outside of his golden shell for a painful few seconds, and then it passed. He don't know what damage it would have done to him, but clearly, the shield on his arm would not have been enough.

From behind, a second figure jumped past him, also shielded as he was – the blast had rolled past him – and she sliced several strokes through its body, letting their shields deflect away the acidic motes. The slender shape of the armor told him she was female, but it was the voice that told him it was Balinda, even before he could see the many holy inscriptions strung to her armor.

Shoulder to shoulder, they worked against the void lord, making only small successes, while the battle shaped up around them. Their forces were pooling around the three Skinless like this – this void lord, the eredar-like one Denell Goldwind fought, and a feminine shaped one with what had to be a hundred arms, spinning about like a cyclone. The only shared trait was their black forms and the lack of radiant green eyes.

Then, there was a flash of warning, and both Malthon and Balinda broke apart to their respective sides just before a flaming javelin came hurling through where they had been standing and drove deep into the non-flesh of their opponent. A second followed, and then the hulking shape of a seven foot tall orc rushed by with his sword high, and it cleaved the void lord clean through.

The 7th Legion was here.

Two more javelins skewered the Skinless, while the orc paced back a step to avoid the hooked swipe of its counter. Then, he, with Malthon and Balinda, jumped in for a three-pronged strike. The vertical slash split it apart, but it was Malthon and Balinda's waves of Light that utterly consumed its body, trailing their weapons.

There was no hesitation as the orc turned in place, eyes wide and set in lust for blood, and he found the next opponent with a loud, inhuman shout. Spittle flew from his maws as he began to run again, sword in hand.

It was only a few moments longer before the other two were downed. Malthon glanced at Balinda as she did the same to him, catching her stormy eyes in the centurion helmet. Neither made comment of their impromptu assistance. Crown and her steed, Justice, were called forth from the Light, and they made their way through the forces. Only a few had been slain in the attack, and already the paladins were working at redeeming them.

The 7th Legion Commander was a human. He had eyes of steel on an aged face, with a thick mustache of brown covering his upper lip. He wasn't clean shaven, instead with dark stubble over the rest of his face, and his personality and voice were equally gruff. He found Malthon and observed stoically, "The shades took the wall from the Scourge."

"Aye," Malthon rumbled back, turning a pensive gaze upon the ramparts, where some still lurked. "We call them the Skinless. They are becoming a larger problem everyday. What is your name, soldier?"

"Jake, my lord. Just Jake."

Either an orphan or someone seeking anonymity. "Reel your boys in then, Commander Jake, and find a horse for yourself. I want you up in command with us."

"Aye, sir," Jake replied after a moment of thought.

Their next stop was the camp at the quarry, residing between the death knights' Shadow Vault and the vrykul Jotunheim. After that, the vault itself.

XxX

In all his years, Malthon had arrived in the midst of an on-going battle more than a few times. Always, it was after the most important moments had passed or were soon to come – the capture of the defense point, overrunning of the walls, death of the leader, issued retreat, and so on. Never had he come at just the crucial moment, able to witness it happening but unable to make a difference.

Never, until this day. When they first realized that the Shadow Vault was under siege, Malthon issued an immediate charge. The station at the quarry had been cleared out, and even the fox hole was abandoned and emptied. In the distance, up the northern mountains, they knew the Shadow Vault was nestled up in a nook, but it wasn't until they could hear the echoing clangs and shouts of the battle on top, half way up the climb, that they knew there was a problem.

Rounding the top lip of the stair case, Malthon could see the death knights neck-deep in Skinless assailants, and it was not a pretty battle. Already it was difficult to see how a death knight was fairing when he utilized diseases, frost, and blood to fight, even turning himself undead or frozen to gain an advantage. It was unclean and impossible to guess the upper or lower hand.

However, at the very center was a monster Malthon could immediately recognize yet couldn't. He took it as a corrupted pit lord, with full wings that spanned back nearly thirty yards from its spined, black-scaled back. Malthon could recognize the Duke of the Shadow Vault, having met the man before, and he recognized him then, suspended in the air for all to see in a chain of corrupted arcane.

It was the most crucial moment of the battle, Malthon realized, and he was utterly helpless but to watch as the pit lord pulled on all limbs of the immensely powerful death knight at the same time, until he was pulled apart to the eruption of red blood and innards. There was no sound of remorse from the fighting Knights of the Ebon Blade, on a disruption to their ferocity in their own battles.

Then they came charging into the backs of the Skinless. The effects of cavalry were devastating – to have mounted paladins with Light-blessed and armored chargers only multiplied the damage done. An uphill charge ruined their momentum, so even with the surprise attack, it lost its advance very quickly. Malthon was quick to leap from Crown to wade through the tides of the battle himself, giving him better reach and opportunity to strike.

He found himself soon surrounded by the brothers and sisters he knew. Jayce was there, then Balinda, and Denell Goldwind. Jenn Stoutmantle was at Balinda's side, and the Ironhawk brothers became their own storm of Light. It heartened Malthon to see them. Even Terichon Galean, their churchyard friend, had come to fight with Malthon in the small circle, while the rest of them, both crusader and 7th Legion, struggled for a way into the battle. As the pathway narrowed, it left them as the only ones able to move forward.

The Shadow Vault defenders were quick to notice the aid, and they roared new commands and defiance. The pit lord monstrosity was a different kind of problem as its broad wings took it into the air with a single swoop. Towering so far above the rest, it had seen the paladins approach, and in one leap, it landed in the very center of their charge.

Malthon's gaze narrowed, and he glanced backwards at where its landing crushed a dozen men forced together in the small confines. Their attention would be split now, front and back.

"Go!" Jayce roared at him. The Scarlet Commander had his shield pushed against a team of Skinless, holding them back. Their friend Terichon rushed up beside him with his own shield and knocked the collection back. His curved sword was held ready as he lined his shield with Jayce's. Terry nodded to Malthon, eyes hard and resolute.

Balinda was also looking to Malthon, standing behind the two shields and waiting. Denell, the rest too. And then Jenn roared out in dwarven fury and left Balinda's side to accompany Jayce and Terry, pushing against the Skinless foe that way. Arvin nodded to Bardin, his brother, and then to Malthon, and he fired one last shot of his heavy rifle before throwing it into his holster and drawing his shield and hammer. He joined the push against the Skinless, leaving only the best fighters with Malthon.

The 7th Legion was having a field day with the Skinless pit lord, but it was to no real avail. Malthon and them ducked as its tail swooped by, and it snapped him into attention.

"To me!" he roared, his voice enhanced by the Light to ring clear and strong. "Advance!"

Malthon took the first step. Balinda, Denell, and Bardin followed.

Once, in a time past, Malthon had witnessed a gnome arguing with a Dalaran scholar over theory of the universe and its forces unassociated with magic. The archmage, as a master of the arcane, made his case for the web of the Twisting Nether that connected the planets together. Like kite strings, the thickest were looped to the sun, leaving them in near perfect circles of orbit around it – with the lesser pulls giving the orbital ring small variance.

The gnome, as a master of technology, denounced the theory, separating the two closely related universes. He argued a view of space-time. Malthon was an educated noble, but even he had difficulty grasping what the gnome meant by impressions of mass in a blanket of something and so forth. There was nothing physical to relate it to, nor magic to explain it, and that left him skeptical.

That is, until Malthon had come to understand the Light. When a paladin was full of Light, his very being shining and pouring forth its radiance, it created a strange... pocket on the physical world. He could not explain it well, but he could feel it – like a new force of gravity was pulling things to him, around him, sinking in towards him and the powerful Light – and amazing things were always bound to happen. When Uther had shattered Frostmourne, he had felt the tilt of the world towards that immense pocket of Light.

Paladins were usually spread around armies to stand as command and moral support to the regular troops. When banded together, strange happenings began to arise as the Light consolidated with Light. Such was the case at the churchyard, where many paladins learned together in close confines, and such was the case now, with Malthon's army of nearly all Light-favored. Even without being filled with Light, their blessings were enough.

Now, in combat conditions, four of the very strongest Light-blessed stood together, filled with every blessing and form of Power they knew. The Light was pooled into them, around them, and it spilled over to wash about the very air into a purified essence that was nearly tangible. The corruption of the Scourge was cleansed of the soil, the wind gaining a fresher scent without blood and rot. Their pockets in the world were so close together that their effects amplified into just one massive impression in the world.

And fey things were abound.

Malthon could not fully explain what happened in that moment, as the four of them approached the Skinless pit lord. When asked later, neither could the other three, but it was reported from the other men that it was not two humans, a dwarf, and a high elf that made their way towards the monstrosity – an angelic being of Light, they said, a massive archangel that towered over even their foe, had stood there, and with a single sweep of its flaming sword, the Skinless had been smote into ash. Then it had turned, towards the other end of the battle, and rays of Light had poured forth from its Just hand and washed away the rest of the enemy.

Malthon scoffed away the reports, saying – with the agreement of those he that had stood beside him – that they had only struck with the Templar's Verdict together to banish the pit lord, and against the rest of the Skinless army, they had synchronized their most powerful blasts of Holy Shock to banish the rest.

But so it was, a dichotomized view of how that battle was ended, and rumors were quick to spread of the divine guardian that was overseeing Malthon's army – or Malthon himself, others reported.

"We came to resupply, and to request bone gryphons to assist in our mission," Malthon began with the leaderless death knights of the Shadow Vault. "A mission to bring salvation to those trapped without means of leaving or rejoining the main bodies of our forces. To my understanding, the Shadow Vault was the last standing bastion of our forces on the glacier, so I'll admit to you now, I am unsure as to what our next course of action will be without a secured base for rest and stop. Is there anyone among you who can take the Duke's place of leadership at the Shadow Vault?"

A blue-eyed tauren sighed, the sound sarcastic though Malthon was sure he didn't mean it that way. "We can send someone through a Death Gate now to bring someone from Acherus Hold, but the gates are one way, so unless you have some mages ready to offer a portal back, it will be months before he or she arrives. There are none here any of us would follow if he decided to... step up."

"Would you accept Lord Goldwind as regent until you have decided upon someone new?" Malthon asked, gesturing to the elven lord.

"No," more than a few voices announced immediately. Denell smirked.

Malthon was running out of options. He did not want to force his way over them and take their supplies and forces. "Is there _anyone_ who does not carry your curse that you would accept as a temporary leading figure for our time here?"

The death knights, all three scores of them, were left silent. The Scourge they had enthralled to their cause looked about stupidly from behind. Malthon was left wondering at their lack of dismissal, until one – a female orc – stepped forward to be better seen. She let her comrades hear her thoughts:

"You offered us aid without any request, paladin, and you rescued, disgusting as it sounds, all of us that stand here now. Without you, and without our Duke, we would not have survived against that many bane fiends. We owe you a debt that will not be waited on for your convenience. For now, we will follow your orders until we consider our debt repaid in full – and any here who disagree with this, step forward now so I may take your empty head!"

There was a length of grumbling in reply, but none spoke out. The orc nodded, satisfied. Denell Goldwind glanced at Malthon with a sly, knowing expression.

Malthon showed no unease or uncertainty. He'd do what must be done, and he needed their full support in order to rescue the men stranded off the coast. "Then we welcome you, Knights of the Ebon Blade, to our forces and to our cause." A loud complaint from Jayce and many of the Scarlet forces. They were silenced quickly by the other paladins. "Any man or woman that dares raise fist or word against our allies, on prejudice of undeath or loyalties once held, will be strung up for forty lashes for dissent. If any death knight is caught inciting another to rash actions, he or she shall be raised crucified for a span of twenty-four hours, then cut down and returned to their duties."

One could not offer pain as punishment to a death knight. Most could not feel it, and those that could relished the feeling. Humiliation and a long span of discomfort seemed the only way.

"Now, we will camp tonight in the Shadow Vault, and I want a double watch tonight in case of a following attack. Tomorrow, we will begin the retrieval efforts at the Onslaught Harbor-" Now it was the death knights' turn to choke back surprise. "-and with a split in forces, rescue those in the deep south, caught between vrykul, Scourge, and Skinless."

There was the beginning of a smile at the complete dissatisfaction demonstrated by the majority of those that followed him. Malthon wondered just how many daggers would be pinning for his heart this night. "Dismissed."

XxX

It did not take long for more than a dozen men to face crucifixion or lashes. They were left on display atop the hills that surrounded the Shadow Vault, for all to see who passed in and out of the fortress. Jayce was not among them, Malthon was glad to notice. The commander hardly even left his tent. Balinda was left in charge of the operations in the south, told to return in two days or else they would be left to search.

With twenty bone gryphons and Cloudrend for Malthon himself, they departed north. Malthon wanted them over the water and off the glacier, to completely avoid the vrykul and their precise harpoon guns. They found a strong draft – not that it was difficult around Icecrown – and followed it south to the island of the Scarlet Onslaught.

In total, the flight was only an hour one way. The bone gryphons did not tire like Malthon's living one would – leading to several grinning offers to change that – but Cloudrend was a sturdy beast trained for endurance runs by the dwarves. He totaled nearly thirty hours of flight time with Balinda over two days. He could handle this.

The harbor was in a sorry state, they noticed upon arrival. The cathedral still stood, but only other buildings for their hundreds of men and women were wooden shacks raised out of the wood that had been used for their few ships – with the sails as roofing for some. The rest were less fortunate.

Malthon did notice the scores of rafts and collection of netting kept near one last remaining dock. Left stranded here for nearly a year now, it was clear their food supplies would have ran out, and they had to take up fishing to sustain the survivors. The island was sparse, with sickly trees in patches, and a few birds. He didn't ask what they did for water, though he suspected snow melt was the primary source.

They landed in the wide expanse before the cathedral. A scattered collection of curious men and women came shambling from their grimy homes or shuffled in colorful clothing out of the cathedral. These men and women... did not look like such. Their bodies were emaciated and sickly, with their eyes sunken and skin pale as death. It seemed as if a child with a sword could slaughter the whole collection of them. If Malthon didn't know better, with the Light as verification, they could have been Scourge skeletons with a last layer of skin stretched over them.

Such wasn't the case for everyone, but disease and sickness clearly ran rampart among the harbor, and Light had all but flickered out of every last man and woman here. Malthon was glad he was the only paladin here to see them in this state, but he'd have much work cut out for him.

The death knights with Malthon had knowing looks about them. Malthon's suspicions were confirmed; reports told him that during the war, the Knights had been "responsible" for ensuring the Onslaught did not cause them any trouble. They had prayed upon the harbor, stranded the men here, and knowing their ways, the quenching of Light and spreading of disease would fall into their hands.

But, it was through them that Adventurers had come and slain Mal'ganis. They struck the blow of retribution for Brigitte Abbendis, and for that, they had Malthon's thanks. The Onslaught under the Dreadlord's control were a force of Shadow, not Light.

"What is the meaning of this? Who are you? Here to finish us off, are you?" one man began, strutting up from the cathedral. His build matched the majority – lean, but not stringy or emaciated. Only the sick were that destitute.

"Peace, friend. I am Lord Malthon Eyenhart, of Lordaeron. We are brothers."

"Eyenhart, eh? Well I don't _know_ any Eyenhart's, _friend,"_ the man continued, sarcastic and eyes aflame. "But I do know those begotten knights that stand behind you, as they burned down New Avalon and slaughtered our families in our homes."

A burly man with the build of a blacksmith stepped up then too, and his hand on the speaker's shoulders silenced the rant. "I for one do remember the nobility of our homeland, before the Scourge. Lord Eyenhart, that is a name I have not heard nor thought in some time. Staunch allies of the Crowngarde's, if I recall, and blood rivals of the... was it the Dester-Yaslin family?"

"The Crowslete," Malthon replied simply, "but only fools would care of such trivial nonsense in a world so changed. Any who serves the Light is my brother and sister, and no family name will stand between that. I have traveled the breadth of Northrend, rallying behind me those of the Light, to reach Icecrown and offer deliverance to those unable to help themselves. The Alliance and Horde have withdrawn from the conflicts here, and the Crusades have dwindled to only a few, unable to support those still caught here.

"Under my command, the Knights of the Ebon Blade, these death knights before you that have broken free of the Lich King's grasp, will offer amends to you at the Onslaught Harbor, and they come now to lend gryphons to fly off this wretched island back to the land above, where we have supplies and safe ground to rest upon. More than two hundred and fifty paladins wait above for your return, Argent Crusade and Scarlet Onslaught both."

"If you think even one of us will climb on those bone monstrosities with one of-" the man was cut short again by the blacksmith's heavy hand.

In the same calm voice, he asked, "Who is next in line for the crown, my lord?"

"Of Lordaeron?" Malthon asked, and he barked a surprised laugh. "Light, friend, I haven't a clue. The Menethil line died with Arthas a year prior, and most of the nobility with the sacking of the capital city. We do not even hold it now. So far as I know, only Lady Balinda Crowngarde and Lord Terichon Galean II even remain."

The blacksmith nodded. The silent gazes of the rest of the Scarlet men and women was eerie, as they let only those two speak for them. With a pensive expression, the blacksmith rumbled slowly, "So the nearest in relation would be the Crowngarde's, whom are oath sworn to never rise above the place of protectors of the crown. By extension then, the crown falls into the hands of... the Eyenhart's. You are the next in line to be King, Lord Eyenhart."

The other man – Malthon guessed him, by the robes, to be a high priest – threw himself away from the grip of the blacksmith, and he demanded, "Are you trying to tell me this man is supposed to be the King of Lordaeron? This man, right here?"

Malthon answered first by shaking his head. "There is no longer a kingdom to govern, friend. Even my home estates have burned to ash. I am a lord only in title." Why did the topic of conversation always seem to fall back to this? He had turned the offer down when Lordaeron was still in flames and he'd turn it down now.

"Before you, my lord," the blacksmith said in turn, "is the final remnants of our kingdom, along with those atop the glacier that you rallied. Our land may be lost, but our people and hearts, we remain, only displaced. We have all relocated, even the Prince and the unfortunate raised undead in his wake, have all come to this frozen land of Northrend. This is our kingdom now, loathsome though it is." There was a strange passion in his voice. Malthon realized it was desperation.

"The King is dead!" someone shouted from the crowd. More were coming from the shacks. Others took up the shout, repeating it. "The King is dead!"

"The King is dead!"

"The King is dead," the blacksmith agreed, nodding his head. He concluded, "Long live the King – the King of Northrend."

"Long live the King!"

"Long live the King!" the whole of them shouted, as many rasping as those who could speak clearly.

Oh, that was much better than those that tried calling him High General. Malthon settled back in his saddle, showing only stone in his expression.

"What a wretched lot you reside over, King," one of the death knights mocked in his metallic voice. There was grainy amusement in it, and others chuckled darkly. He surprised the rest of them, and certainly Malthon, by repeating icily, "Long live the King."

A second death knight repeated it, then a third and fourth. Many of them had been Lordaeron heroes and champions, Malthon knew, but to elicit this response from them...

_Only a fool would accept this nonsense,_ Malthon told himself. He was no king, and barely even a lord. He was a paladin, a man of Light, a servant of the world – not its ruler.

"It is not for you to decide," Malthon told them finally, his voice hard as marble.

Another man stepped forward, in a simple brown vest with tattered breeches. "And forgive me, milord, but it is not for _you_ to decide either."

"Enough of this," he replied. "We are here to take deliver you from your prison upon this island. We can take twenty at a time. I will take to cleansing each rider of any disease or illness and bless them before departure. All who will go, approach now, and let my lay my hands upon you."

All all two hundred of the Scarlet Onslaught did, accepting even the death knights to follow their "King." It was then Malthon stopped to reconsider that blacksmith, who opted to wait until the latter evacuations were to happen. The man stood there with his arms crossed, a smile on his lips. Had he known that such a declaration would tie enough loyalty to Malthon to have the Onslaught accept passage from death knights?

The thoughts hounded him the entire ride back to the Shadow Vault.

XxX

Seventy five men and women followed Balinda's congregate back into the Shadow Vault. Alliance strandees, the forgotten or unaccounted for, and the crusaders that rallied to familiar banners.

Justice, Balinda's charger, snorted as they rounded the top of the stairs, entering the densely packed crevice of the Shadow Vault. She looked up to the hills to see a full score of men either tied to lash posts or crucified, and she shook her head at the ignorance of some men. At her side, Jenn clucked her tongue in agreement.

There was a strange energy to the rest of the forces here, she noticed. New tents had been raised at the steps of the fortress, and many more people were darting about the grounds. All seemed surprisingly well in her short absence, until a single phrase halted her and her entire precession:

"Welcome, brothers and sisters, in the name of the King."

Jenn started visibly at it. "In the name of... What blimey king are we speaking of, laddie?"

The herald blinked at her, before something clicked in his mind. He smiled sheepishly. "Why, King Malthon Eyenhart of Northrend."

"Yah!" Balinda shouted, kicking Justice into a sprint. She missed Jenn's following tirade of angry, dwarven curses, but her focus was too narrow to hear it anyways.

Men and women both leaped out of the way of the rampaging horse, and she swiftly passed the threshold of the Shadow Vault, plunging into the murky depths. The fortress was much too crowded for a horse, let alone one at that speed, but she did not care. Balinda found Malthon easily, trailed by a large group of military followers and paladins in their bulky armor.

With a command, Justice dissolved back into the Light, and Balinda hit the ground at a fast sprint, until she was right in the insolent simpleton's surprised face. Guilt trickled into his expression, but it was far, far too late for that. She felt about to rip out every blond hair of his beard at that moment.

"I am gone for two meager days, and I return to _this!"_ she roared, stopping only when her breastplate bumped into Malthon's, sending him back a step. The collection around them quickly retreated. _"King_ Malthon? Hell's Bells, the audacity of your behavior is absolutely _unacceptable!"_

Jayce was there, eye's smoldering, and his hand fell on her forearm. "Now see here-!"

He was thrown behind her in one motion, as Balinda advanced upon Malthon again. "I am going to give you ten seconds to explain exactly what in all the blighted nights you were _thinking_ when you thought that taking up a blighted _crown_ was a bloody good idea!"

"Hell's Bells, you weren't kidding, Malthon. She really is a bright storm on a shady leaf," Lord Danell Goldwind commented. Balinda chose to ignore him – she was, indeed, merciful when time did not permit.

He'd get something later.

Malthon had a reproachful smile then, glancing at the elven lord, and he looked back to Balinda bitterly. "Aye, a Fool King is me, of the Lordaeron refugees and forgotten men of Northrend. It became necessary to offer a High General for forces so repelled by each other."

Her gauntlet crashed into his furry cheek, sending Malthon to the metallic floor of the fortress. "But you didn't stop there, did you? You had to be a bloody _king_ too, didn't you? You are no king, Malthon! You are a lord!" Her forgotten childhood friend was a lord, and nothing more. Their responsibilities were different. They were...

"Someone halt this accursed-" GONG! Balinda silenced the naysayer with a Hammer of Justice against his plated helm.

"He with the Crimson Hands," Malthon said softly, beginning to stand again with some difficulty. "The Light of the Creeping Rime. I did not ask for this, Dame Balinda. I rejected it as long as I could, but it became necessary. Judge my decision, Dame Balinda Crowngarde, and tell me it was not so."

He knew the workings of the Light within her. They had grown up learning of the beautiful Light together. Judgment, justice, they were her eyes, and her hands that of retribution. And Balinda had already judged him, as the Light did within her, and she railed against the fact that it deemed no reprimand!

So she said nothing, seething with fury that she struggled to continue calling righteous, as Malthon's familiar blue eyes bore into hers, his expression somber. Such was a man that could do no wrong, and the Light would tear him apart in its rampage of doing only right. His burden, his cross.

"Now, does Lady Crowngarde accept my place as the Fool King of Northrend?"

Her legs gave out from under her, like she had tripped over a rope. Balinda stared at the position it left her in, kneeling before him, caught only by her sword point digging into the ground before her. When had it even left her scabbard, or entered her gauntlets?

"Lady Crowngarde?" a high pitched voice yelped from behind her. Jenn had finally caught up.

Malthon's appeals to her different titles was not an idle thing. The paladin judged his decision, and now he asked if the Crowngarde would perform her duties, as protector of the realm, as knight and bodyguard of the king. And the Light had synchronized their actions, their words and motions. Malthon's powerful pull, his storm of Light, had swept her up and left her helpless before its strength.

So she let it move her mouth, watching as her mind spun with thoughts after thoughts. "You have my blade." She bit off the title that addressed him as her king. The Light allowed her the small victory: "You bloody fool of a man."

And so it came to pass that a King of Northrend was raised, to be accepted and defied by those who dared. And His eyes were set upon those He called Skinless.

* * *

AN: Anyone foreseeing any good things happening when Drekthac and the Ymirjar hear about this so called King? Didn't think so.

Well, that concludes The First Stage, and this burst of updates. For now, I'd like to listen to current thoughts, perhaps make some changes along what's already posted here, and overall take a break from writing before I continue on to the Second Stage.


	16. Stage Two, Chapter 14: Honor Thy Elders

The Second Stage: March

* * *

Chapter 14

_Honor Thy Elders_

* * *

X Unknown X

Upon the steps of Ulduar, the men wracked with shivers, accusing the cold, none of them questioning if it was not terror that had infiltrated their being. To look upon Its eyes is to invite certain death, they were told, and so they waited with eyes cast down upon the trampled snow, waiting.

There was a sound then, up from the very top of the grand staircase, and they caught movement there from peripherals. Quickly, they turned their eyes further down, voices catching in their throats, groveling before He that would be their Master.

A rich, malicious chuckle touched their ears, and the sound betrayed itself as the clod of horse hooves. Those with sense did not dare to raise their eyes, though the curious were betrayed as they glanced upwards. It was not He that approached them, but a rider on a midnight steed, shrouded in clothing of equal darkness.

"And who are you?" the first of them demanded, shouting out over the howling winds of Storm Peaks. A clash of lightning and thunder punctuated his words; here, that was a common theatric. The others, emboldened, also raised their eyes.

The rider smiled at their bunch. "I am the Prophet of He That Is Always Watching. I am His mouth, and He is my eyes. It is to me you will plead the case for your fleeting lives."

At the mention of eyes, the rider was finally close enough for them to make out the pale face beneath the hood. Jagged gouges ripped at the flesh beside the empty sockets, the lids cast open to reveal their terrible bowels. The quivering continued, knowing this one spoke with the authority of Him.

"Yes, well," the man said, fighting to regain his confidence, while the rider circled them. The horse too exhaled smoke and ash, also missing its eyes, and the mouth seemed to sneer at them with human emotion. "We seek to serve the Great Master, as the Twilight's Hammer always have. We are devoted."

"He loathes your pitiful kind, fatherslayers," the rider told them. "He seeks to end you. He will be there, Watching, as the last songs of the mortals grow silent, Watching as the last heart finishes beating, and the last lids flutter shut, forever blind to the world of the living.

"The world is already overthrown. Its leaders lay dead, their blood feasted on by the Mlachwah, and the greatest cities and smallest havens lay cracked open like the eggs of a robin. What use has He for swine like you?"

Many turned their gazes away from even this mouthpiece, silent and without defense. They had offered so little resistance against those that came for Yogg'Saron. One man, he that had spoken since the beginning, dared:

"We offer hands that work loyally, Prophet, and eyes that can see."

The Prophet of the Elder God smiled broadly. It revealed to them the inhuman nature of it, splitting its maw past the line of lips, revealing rows of shark-like teeth. This body was an avatar, not human. The hatred was obvious in its expression even still. "Yes, you offer eyes. But what you do not know, youngling, is that elsewhere in this world, resistance can still be found. The leaders fell before the Exyccikt'la, but the heroes rally for whatever defense they can conjure.

"We will not slay you now, for there is still use in you. You are human, you are dwarf, here before me, and that allows you to infiltrate those that dare advance upon He That Sees Everything. The blessed armies of the Ysthalcc'nilu can defeat them from the outside, but from the inside, there is no need to draw them into confrontation. You know what I speak of, yes?"

"The... Yslah-what?" someone asked. "You must forgive our immaturity in the matters of the Great Master."

The Prophet showed no disdain, though his circle around them, up and down the steps, counter-clockwise. "The wisest of men, fatherslayer, seeks to ascend from Ywalsthu, from minnows, to the Ysthalcc'nilu – the chosen, the children, the progeny and propagators. To cast your eyes upon the beast is the highest honor you may ever chance upon, fatherslayer, and prostration in prayer to Ghat'Nothos, The Always Watching, should be foremost in your desires. Pray for forgiveness, as the children who slew their merciful father, and pray for salvation, through the blood of He Above You."

The cultists fell to their knees, bowing down in servitude. "Cast your blessing upon us, Great Master!" they cried out, while the Prophet sneered.

"You will come to learn, fatherslayer, that the price of blood can only be repaid in blood. Now begone!" The air whipped at command, sending the prostate men tumbling down the steps, clinging to icy edges to prevent the long fall. "Go! Service Ghat'Nothos, and pray, minnows!"

A pale sword was drawn, raised high, and orange light radiated from its shining length. Then, it was slashed down, like the order of march from a general, and from the skies came a swirling meteor, to crash in the place the men had stood prior. Flaming debris scattered down upon them, while the men rose to flee. Other meteors came crashing down, even crushing one man into a corpse of ash, before they managed to flee.

X Prophet X

Sin had walked the place called the Gardens of the Twisting Nether. It was a home-struck name, from his very mother Margaret de Rath, but not one altogether isolated. After his conversation with his mother within her soulstone, he had opened the way into the begotten lands of the Twisting Nether, to the Gardens, to behold that which had become his inheritance.

The Nether was not like Azeroth. It was a realm of separate laws, separate physics, tied closer to the mind than the physical body. He walked the ground only because his mind had gravity pulling him downward. He remained in only this place, because his mind anchored him here with purpose, to not be accidentally whisked across the universe into... other lands. Lands belonging to Sargeras, the Destroyer.

In such a place as the Gardens, the Destroyer held no threat to Sin. Not here. For it was no scenic walk, no stroll past beautiful trees of Nether-color. It was a prison complex, one of the finest and most intricate of its kind. Margaret de Rath was not a fighter, but her skill as warlock extended so far beyond that. She could build such beautiful, impossible things.

And Sin had become its Keeper. The Warden.

Dancing at the edges of his vision along the walk was the shadow-haze of the Nether, the uncertainty of the universe, always in attempt to tug away his focus long enough to take him to a new land. It was not Sin's own focus that held him in place, however. In his right hand, tapping with purpose between each step, was _Shed'lahk._ It seemed to purr, content as a cat, at the approach towards what it knew.

It would allow him to go no place else, for they were on path towards _Shed'Beshal._

Sin was not alone on his journey – well, as alone as one could get here. His mother had not been an idle figure through history. Each tree here contained a prisoner, be it eredar, nathrezim, or something else of unspeakable, unstoppable evil. Names that once pulled forth the most ghastly terror lay eternally bound here, to be forgotten.

Now, behind Sin, was a small army of little imps. Two remained at the forefront: Quztal, Sin's own contracted brother, and she that was called Grandmother Shuzlo. Shuzlo was the mother of Quztal, and all the imps that presently followed them, but after watching her raise several generations of the monsters, "Mother" no longer seemed appropriate to Sin.

Finally, one particular dark shadow sharpened from its blur into a full shape. Arching purples met with jagged greens, with thorns of orange and bark of dripping blood. There were no leafs upon the imposing figure of _Shed'Beshal_, but the twisting monstrosity, large as the Dragonqueen, could be called nothing but a tree. The purple of the branches were threaded with the green Light of Nether energy, remaining harvested in a shell of power around it. The tree was silent, almost innocent, yet its very representation, and the knowledge of what remained ensnared in its roots below, frightened Sin then as the stories of it had as a child.

The collected scores of imps cowered before it, hiding as best they could, while Quztal took to hiding beneath the hem of Sin's robes. Sin barely managed enough attention to keep himself clothed, as well as whole in body. One imp did not hide, instead stopping beside Sin himself, and she sighed heavily to herself. Shuzlo had been Sin's mothers own contact.

No longer was warlock and imp bound by word or blood. If Margaret called upon the true name of Shuzlo, the aged imp came, for such was their friendship and company, just as Shuzlo may call upon Margaret if in need of defense for her brood from the evil of the Nether.

"_A terrible image, that which is called _Shed'Beshal," Shuzlo had said then to Sin, as they stared at the tree. Though its body seemed small, colossal only without thought of the larger horrors of the world, its roots reached deep and far to capture the whole body of the Nameless Evil it harbored.

Unlike the trees they had passed, which shook and writhed, _Shed'Beshal_ was perfectly still, for it was in slumber with its prisoner. Margaret had imprisoned the Nameless One, yet very quickly the tree had succumbed to its terrible power, turning into a new host, and she had it sealed, to be freed only from one key:

_The Heart of Shed'Beshal_ had been removed, and though it carried all of the perverse evil of its body, it had been cut from its power, unable to influence the world around it outside of a wielder of the Heart. _Shed'lahk, the Heart of Shed'Beshal,_ was the name.

Sin felt the staff trying to tug him forward then, towards the tree. His mind spun images of what should happen then, as he inserted the key back into the lock, the heart into the body, and in that moment, the Evil would awaken once again, and the universe would tremble.

He resisted its pull, its promises of power and life eternal, despite knowing them to be true. The Twisting Nether did not know such evils as that which was contained within _Shed'Beshal._ Azeroth did, the Great Dark Beyond did, and they were called old gods. But old gods were beings of the physical world, of malefic evil but thwart-able power. Immortal, sure, but even immortals could be slain.

Such was not so in the Twisting Nether. Thought, imagination, and chaos ruled here. They were not beings of physical bodies, only shapes which they saw themselves as, and power was limited only to what the mind could contrive and the will could support. The titan Sargeras had mastered the rules of the Nether in his control of it, but he was not a monster contrived of this world. Not like the Nameless Evil was, which could spread its will from end to end of the infinite plane, to be anywhere and everywhere, to subdue even the grandest and mightiest being with only a thought.

Margaret had been given the jump on the Evil when its summoning had happened. A force of powerful eredar spell-weavers had come together for the... Sin might guess creation of such an evil, for its manifestation into the metaphysical plane, but they had cast their magics and immense control of the Nether to weave into existence this Evil, for their dark purposes, unknowing that they could _never_ hope to control it.

They had perished nearly immediately. But before it could fully flex its might, Margaret had come, and she battled this newly formed creature, quickly sealing it away here, in the Gardens. It was the gorgeous centerpiece to an immense collection of such pleasant-seeming cells.

"_What would happen,"_ Sin had asked back to Shuzlo, _"if such an Evil was to be freed?"_

The imp matron peeled the horn pipe from her mouth, blowing smoke thicker than that which left Sin's mouth, and wrinkled lips drew together under her massive hooked nose. _"Terrible things, child. I suspect that first to go would be the Gardens, and each prison herein would shatter, releasing untold evils back into the Nether. If your mother's theory is correct, It might subjugate the entire Twisting Nether and plunge it into chaos and ruin, raping and consuming all that is until Its own reign of power trickles into a state of deep slumber, resting in Its own dreamless nap with a full belly, until the day It awakens to repeat the cycle."_

"_Is this really necessary?"_ Quztal had complained from beneath Sin's robes. Many of these imps had been here when Margaret had sealed the Evil; memories still had them trembling, from just the still form of _Shed'Beshal._

Sin ignored his imp, staring transfixed at the tree. _"Often, they are overshadowed by the tales of this prisoner, but were the others here so awful? Who were they?"_

"_In your world, you know demons by the physical forms they must take. Here in the Twisting Nether, all powers are amplified by will, including that of malevolence. Consider your Mal'ganis, and the harm he has wrought upon your world with the undead legions of the Scourge. Here, his evil will is far more influential in the universe around him... and he is but one nathrezim, a figurehead. There, beneath that tree of sickly greens and dripping oranges, lays a nathrezim Elder, the presence of whom even Mal'ganis would tremble before. Across from it is a brother of force, an eredar second to Kil'Jaeden in magical power and second to none in his pursuit of cruelties. I would use their names, if such would not excite them further in their imprisonment."_

The Grandmother imp blew more smoke from her mouth, before sucking in again through her pipe. Her beady eyes were narrowed in their regard. Sin's gaze left her pensive face to turn back, looking past the horde of trembling imps, to other trees. He had asked, _"And The Twelve?"_

Shuzlo did not look, sucking at her pipe. After a lengthy exhale, she had muttered in a deep, reflective tone, _"Creatures of the Nether – not demons. Creatures from beyond reality, outside of the world as you and even I know it. They are far from the evil of demons, yet far more terrible in threat. They know not human emotions like love and hate, and in their alien natures, that makes them infinitely more dangerous. You can expect a demon to loath you; for the Others, you can only count on festering madness."_

The Others. Sin had heard of them, in vague tales, from his mother, but the subject had never been clear. There was much Grandmother Shuzlo could teach him. His mother too, had she the reason and time. _"They cannot manifest on the physical world, can they? The Others. They possess mortals to madness, right?"_

"_Aye, and immortals too,"_ Shuzlo had answered, nodding sagely. She paused to inhale another deep breath of pipe smoke. _"If drawn onto a world like Azeroth, they come as a force, a bodiless entity. Sometimes it is madness, as they think their thoughts in a human mind, and sometimes it is in play, to watch the kings of the world raise armies in their rage to battle in that they call the Dance and Song of Wind."_

There was a sudden cry of terror from the imps, and Shuzlo hummed in her basso, throaty way. Sin looked at them in question, until he felt a tap of Shuzlo's staff on his left arm in a strange place. Looking back, he saw his focus had sipped, and presently his left arm was stretching nearly twenty feet beyond, reaching with _Shed'lahk_ to insert the Heart back into _Shed'Beshal._

An eye-blink after, the arm was planted at normal distance before him, the staff grounded, and _Shed'lahk_ growled violently within his head. Liquid fire began to pour into his arm, and the skin began to hiss and melt at the place of contact between them. Sin was left wincing at the pain, but he bore it through a shadow-wrapped mind.

Shuzlo nodded. _"You're control of the Bane-Heart is good, but your mind must always be present in the Nether with it."_

"_Why must things be evil?"_ Sin asked rhetorically. He would not forget that with him were demons, whom were not human in will or intent, though often cruel mischief was the worst of the imps' deeds.

The wizened matron did not hesitate to answer. _"Why do the mortals show empathy for those that are not themselves? To a demon, taking quarrel with one whom you have none – in defense for another, as you say – is unfair and evil. In your courts of law, you pride in your logic, and cold reason, for your judgments. If we were to have a court, we would cherish most passion, the incentives of emotion, and the strength of their pursuit. It is a different state of mental being, not precisely "evil.""_

Sin shook his head, with no reply to an answer like that. He had told her next, _"Come, let us return to your abode and break with tea and biscuit, Grandmother Shuzlo."_

The imp matron threw her pipe's embers at Sin, and he danced back with a short cry. Glaring, Shuzlo had declared, _"Call me "Grandmother" again and I'll sear your eyes off!"_

They had departed from the Gardens then, for a short while before Sin returned to his home at Gadgetzan, where he had found Warden Blackmoon and the bruiser waiting.

XxX

A strong sense of vertigo followed Sin's travel through the Waygate. The climate seemed nearly identical, but there was a certain wrongness that his senses noticed that told him he was far displaced. So went the jump of thousands of miles, from the very bottom of the world to the very top, from Un'Goro Crater to Sholazar Basin.

Sekara was trembling. Her tan skin was pocked with gooseflesh all the way around, and she shivered as if submerged in the deepest waters of Northrend's ocean. There was no icy nip to the air to set her in such a state, only the traveling through the technology of her foes, the Titans. Sin had held her in his arms as they used the Waygate, to urge her through, but the physical support seemed to do little to alleviate her fears.

She was without harm though, and soon the other qiraji and the many bandits passed through as well. They marveled over the ancient technology, the instantaneous passage through the stars. Even Narelle Blackmoon gave it a second glance once she was through, undoubtedly considering its uses for her people.

To the south and east they moved, sliding along the outer wall of the northern crater. They moved quickly, with Sin on his dreadsteed and the bandits trotting with the unyielding resolve of the desert. The sun had not even set when the first of the silithid was found.

"By the goddess," Narelle gasped at the finding, slowing herself to a walk and staring.

Sin stopped beside her, nodding to himself. "As I said. However, it appears that C'Thun's long reach could not stretch this far north at his current power, or perhaps not penetrate the magical protection of the basin. These silithid remained remarkably passive, even at the time of Yogg'Saron's reign."

The warden narrowed her gaze at him, suspicion coming to her silver eyes. "You are suggesting they should be left alone, without consideration of them later being rallied."

"I have considered it. Ressact!"

"Sin de Rath," a familiar voice rasped. The speaker of the qiraji remained veiled in white, and she hovered beside him now with a new alertness to her teal eyes.

"Answer in truth. Do the qiraji Battleguards still seek a haven without war or strife?" Narelle's interest was peaked.

"It is so," Ressact answered.

"If the old god came for you now, would you serve it or fight it?"

The qiraji expression for uncertainty passed over her eyes. "The sisters seek safety from extinction... But the all-mind is loyal to Sin de Rath, and Sin de Rath would fight. The sisters would fight for Sin de Rath."

"And if I found you haven, would you remain loyal to me?"

Ressact had no answer, and her wings took her to the left and right in quick bursts. But she was not the only one listening, and a second qiraji floated before him. It was Sekara, covered in pink vest and pink harem pants, but no longer veiled as the rest were. "Sekara loyalty to Sin de Raas."

Ressact caught her attention then, and teal eyes bore into each other as the qiraji communicated. Sekara remained bold, staring down her white-clothed sister, until Ressact faltered and bowed her head, retreating back. Though Sekara had improved her speech much since the days in Silithus, Sin still looked to Ressact to speak.

The woman remained hesitant, until she admitted, "Sekara explains human ways, to which qiraji should not understand. We owe you debts, we owe you favor. Ressact does not understand, for such thoughts are for the Master, but Sekara is certain. Qiraji loyalty is not to be whimsical. The qiraji are loyal to Sin de Rath, for now until Sin de Rath says no."

_Explains human ways?_ Sin wondered, looking to the once-Bugsy that had started this whole mess. Sekara's black-covered mouth twitched then, pulling at the sides, and he realized she was trying to smile. He realized in a startling moment that perhaps he was not the only only one to face changes at the forced linkage of minds between him and her.

"I don't understand," he admitted, looking between the two.

Sekara said, "At parting, all-mind loyalty to Sekara. Sekara loyalty to Sin de Raas. So, sisters loyalty to Sin de Raas."

He nodded slowly, letting her words sink in. Perhaps it could work. "Warden Blackmoon, watch closely, for I permit you this knowledge. Sekara, Ressact, and all the qiraji Battleguards – before you lies a peaceful silithid hive. In there, you can find haven from the war, to settle without fear from brothers or fathers or old gods. There may come times where you must defend yourselves, but the Battleguards are elite warriors, and I trust you will ensure your own future, even as I leave you to take battle against the new old god."

There was silence between them, until Sekara asked quietly, barely heard over the buzz of her wings, "So Sin de Raas leave now?"

"Indeed I shall," he told her. It was a fey feeling, to be parting from the qiraji. Part of him was ready to rejoice, and yet another part expressed clear sorrow. "I ask that you keep the silithid peaceful in the hive as well. I like the sisters; I do not want to return to battle them again."

There was another pause, before Sekara rasped, "Gratitude and much sorrow from Sekara."

"I know," he told her. "I will check in on you when it is all over." She nodded back, before turning away from him.

The bandits took to a break then, as Sin and the qiraji worked at assimilating them with the silithid. The process happened easily, and the Battleguards entered the hive to establish themselves in their new home. By nightfall, it was only Sin and Sekara that remained outside, and there was a heavy silence between them.

Sekara was an odd friend to have made during the travels, but she had taught him much, hurt him more, and she had established a bond between them that seemed unwilling to break even now. She was the first of them to seek him as a friend, the first to talk to him; she was the one corrupted lusts sought, the one he found attractive and companionable, and her trust had held him through the fallout between he and Lynona, his succubus.

Sin hugged her now, uncertain of what to say. Sekara tried returning the gesture, touching him with the red nubs of her arms, until they separated. "Farewell, Sekara," he told her.

"Fight well, Sin de Raas," she returned. And then she kissed him, as he had her before. It was a clumsy touch of lips, but Sin smiled and kissed her back, before they parted again.

Narelle was waiting for him when he finally left the qiraji to their own fate. She had her arms crossed before her bosom, revealing all the skin and weapons beneath her cloak, but her expression was steel. Sin met her, his own expression solemn. _Shed'lahk_ remained tightly gripped in a fist as he planted it finally between them and said, "This chapter is done, Watcher. You know their fate, you know their plots as well as I. Now, we march to find this old god."

"My Watch remains on you," she told him tersely, and silver eyes gave a deliberate look at his staff. "The battles for your mind and loyalty have not yet ended."

"Nor shall they, I fear," Sin agreed. "Should you find it worthwhile, so long as I cling to myself, we shall remain companions for a rather long time. Centuries even, or the rest of my life."

"I do not look forward to it," she spat, and her gaze turned to the east. "If you would do away with the pervasive forces, I would not be necessary at all."

"Do away with _Shed'lahk?"_ Sin asked, and he barked a laugh. "You do not yet know how such an action would damn the universe. You will in time. I will make myself trust you in necessity, as our travels continue."

She looked at him again, until an unspoken understanding was reached. The conversation changed course then as she asked, "Where do we go next?"

"East, to climb the mountain wall up to the land called Wintergrasp. From there, I can find allies and managed a network of information until we know where to strike."

Narelle was pacified, and if she had more words, she held them at the approach of Darnin. The tanned, worn husk of a man looked deliberately towards the mouth of the silithid hive, then to Sin. He asked, "So that's it then? We are done with the qiraji for good?"

A strange vulnerability prevented Sin from answering immediately. Always, when dealing with the former cultists, he had an army behind him. Darnin especially was unpredictable, treacherous, clearly following his own whims and wills. As a warlock, Sin was not used to being surrounded by danger without stalwart and absolutely loyal companion at his back. He missed Lynona. Narelle, whose only purpose was to execute him if he slipped, was no replacement.

Sin raised his hood over his head, despite the darkness, and he noted the tightness at the base of his spine. He wrapped his mind in shadows, returning cold focus, and decided to also shroud himself in truth, for whatever it meant to this man: "As I said from the beginning, they came to me for deliverance, and now my task has been fulfilled. From here, we march to war."

"Was it a smart move?" Darnin pressed, without emotion in his voice.

_How utterly ambiguous,_ Sin noticed. _Shed'lahk_ purred in his mind, whispering violence, strength, destruction – all the power Sin could ever need, to see him through any treachery or foe. Truly, with its power, Sin would have no fear of this man. Frankly, its words were true, but such would come with a terrible cost.

Sin took him to mean the fighting capabilities of the Battleguards. The loss of their scythes was a valid concern. "I gave them my word, and I concluded the contract. That is all that matters."

"To you, Specter," Darnin argued, but with a shake of his head, he dropped the matter. "Where do we go now? This jungle does not appear to be as deadly as Un'Goro, but I still do not favor running through it in the dark."

"We'll make some distance between us and the hive, then camp. How do our food stock look?"

"Bountiful, after our hunts. On your word, we're ready to leave."

Sin summoned his dreadsteed, quickly overcoming its headstrong will to mount it. "Then let us be off."

XxX

By the third day of moving through Sholazar Basin, Sin's band found themselves surrounded.

It began with ancient protectors, those sentient trees that could walk on stump-like legs, with leafy beards and keen eyes. They stomped in front of their march, holding at the top of the hill Sin was about to climb – three of them. His dreadsteed neighed loudly as he wheeled it towards the north, along the shallow river they had just crossed, and he waved them along it to avoid the sentries.

A small herd of nymphs and dryads trampled down from the brush to fill the way, and they bore leafy spears and wooden shields, armed for war. Though innocent and frolicsome, the fey folk were reputed deadly warriors, and Sin cursed to himself, turning towards the south, to try for a hard climb towards the steep cliffs of the basin.

"The fucking elves followed us!" Handon roared then, as more creatures of the forest and fey appeared to advance from the south. He drew a cleaver and gestured with deadly intent towards Narelle. "She brought them here!"

By then, the rest of the bandits had clamored into the bank of the river, and with a knowing look back, Sin saw the advance of keepers of the grove, dryads, and more ancient protectors from the western bank they had just descended. Darnin appeared beside Handon then, and a knobby hand soothed the arm that held the cleaver, turning it away with deceptive strength. "Calm," he whispered in passing.

Sin looked in all the directions, watching the forest advance upon them, seeking a way out without combat. _Shed'lahk_ laughed in his head, for this was no actual dilemma. Sin would use it to turn the entire area into ash; he would have no choice. Narelle had her bow drawn, he noticed, and she was crouched on a smooth stone with an arrow nocked loosely, watching.

"Specter," Darnin called, as Jern shouldered his way to Sin. A broadsword was held between two burly fists.

Sin said nothing. The forest stopped moving, at roughly fifty paces out from any angle. Close enough for most range attacks, but at least there would be chance for negotiations. From the looks of their accosters, he had a firm idea of whom was behind this, and Handon couldn't be further wrong from "elves."

Just then, there was a roar appropriate to the jungle, and a massive snow leopard pounced from a hiding place in the brush to the sloped side of the eastern bank, and with heavy steps, it paced back and forth, watching Sin alone with glowing blue eyes. Sin recognized the beast: Loque'nahak.

An odd addition, he felt, until a second roar outdid his by ground-shaking multiples. The next creature to leap from the brush cleared the ancient protectors, revealed to be even larger than they, and its landing left deep marks in the loose soil, though its paws did not slip.

A toothy grin regarded him, revealing teeth larger than Sin was tall. He knew this one as well, though he was unsure if he should be afraid or relieved. Har'koa, the snow leopard goddess. Taking from Sin the knowledge of the loa goddess, _Shed'lahk_ began to spew fire from its contact with Sin – dripping bright lava from shaft into soil – and the astral tendrils thickened to sink its hooks deeper into Sin's body.

Finally, in this new standstill, the true force of the forest came. It was not an avatar, as Sin expected. The Warden of Life, an entitled Watcher of the titans... Freya herself came striding forth, standing at what must have been forty feet tall, stopping between the ancient protectors at the top of the eastern bank, where they looked like mossy stumps beside her hips.

For what _Shed'lahk_ represented in chaos and destruction, a rival staff of unadulterated _life_ tapped into the soil beside the goddess, and from its touch, new life blossomed in a sudden burst of green and colorful flowers. The whole length of wood was covered in writhing, ever-blooming life as well.

Sin began to wonder if his madness had crept back over his mind without notice, as he looked at the trap sprang from two reputed goddesses. From the looks of the others, however, he knew he was not alone in this hallucination, and he sobered his expression beneath his hood.

"Children of the shadow, you will remain where you are or face penalty of death," Freya boomed, in a voice that rang like a city's church bells.

Handon was unimpressed. "Yeah?" he hollered back. "And who are you, you mossy bitch?"

A wry smile passed Narelle's lips as she answered calmly. "That is Freya, goddess of life, whom you just insulted."

"Freya is not the goddess I'm worried about," Sin remarked quietly, staring at Har'koa. The toothy grin stretched wider.

Freya proved nonplussed. "Sin de Rath! You will ascend the riverbank now and speak to us."

Light and Shadow, to be singled out by them. The paths he had followed in recent days did not bode well for dealings with figures like these two. His dreadsteed was not one to grow nervous, but its hooves danced over the soil, snorting at the many figures facing it. It recognized power.

With a short command, Sin banished it back into the Twisting Nether, and he landed on the grass with practiced ease. He did not look to the many faces around him, all of whom followed him here. After inhaling a deep breath, he began to climb the slope, towards Har'koa and her mate.

He had barely made three steps when Loque'nahak roared threateningly, and Har'koa growled, "Not you, child of the stars. Your fate lies with those you've chosen to affiliate with."

"I am a warden, and Sin de Rath is my Watch," Narelle Blackmoon argued, and he realized she had tried following him up. With surprising reverence, she added, "Please, great goddess, reconsider."

"Your kind has grown too bold in its immortality," Har'koa scoffed, and then she stepped forward swiftly to catch Sin by his robes, between her teeth. He prided himself on not crying out in surprise or fear, as she lifted him up and bounded to Freya with him dangling helplessly. Loque'nahak remained behind, keeping the rest of them under close watch.

Sin clutched onto _Shed'lahk_ with all his might as he was bounced about upon the gleaming white fangs of the snow leopard goddess, but he noticed that once they crested the hill, Har'koa did not stop there. She bounded forward, over the nearby brush, and in the lazy grace of her kind, she loped along deeper and deeper into the forest, letting him thrash against the iron fangs with every step.

Battered, likely bruised, Sin was spat finally onto a grassy meadow, where he rolled several times. He remained frozen in place for a moment, then withheld any complaint as he rose to his feet again. He looked up in time to see Freya clear the last long stride with a single leg, and then he was alone with two goddesses, both of whom towered over his mortal form.

In truth, Sin considered himself a warlock of much privilege. His innate magical power, combined with his devoted study into the forbidden arts and years of practical experience, had rewarded him with legendary meetings with beings well beyond what a mortal should encounter. C'Thun might have been added to that list, had Sin not perished in the tunnels before the confrontation.

Beings both great and dark had considered his help and graciously accepted, and together, sometimes even back to back in desperate pitches, they had overcome foes that neither could take alone. Therein lied favors, offers of power, discipleship, and more, between Sin and these beings of great power. He knew that _Shed'lahk's_ offers were not the only paths he could take, should he be desperate for more power. He knew to always keep that in mind, especially now when faced with the appearance of another old god.

But while warlocks were known as sorcerers whose ambitions for power drove them into similar dark bargains, there was always a difference. Warlocks exposed and saturated themselves to power that came with dark temptations, and through control, the first law of a warlock, their cornerstone, they overcome the manipulations and used the powers for their own independent purposes. The bargains Sin had refused were those that came with collars to latch around his neck, those that removed his ability to fight control. He would lose his freewill.

But for others, Sin had accepted their thanks as favors, to be called in later. Har'koa was one such deity, when she had been bound before the trolls of Zul'Drek and Sin had come in a storm of fire and shadow to free her. They had a history together. On Freya, Sin had been there to see her freedom from the grasps of Yogg'Saron in the bowels of Ulduar.

Now, Sin glanced from the massive face of the snow leopard goddess, then he looked up to the towering figure of Freya. Both were silent in their regard for him, waiting, observing. Sin met them squarely, not knowing what foothold he had in their graces... and he noticed Freya was wearing a rather short skirt.

Sin blinked, then turned away quickly to look to the trees around him, fighting a rush of embarrassed heat to his cheeks. For one who knew all mortals stood as high as her shins and must always look up, a goddess _really_ ought to be wearing... more. Sin couldn't hold in a bark of laughter at the thought, realizing the mad bubbles still could interrupt his control.

"Something you find funny, Sin de Rath?" Har'koa growled. She was not being threatening, but such was her way of speak.

Sin shook his head, sobering quickly and reminding himself of where he was. He told her, "In a mad sort of way. Why have you stopped us?"

The loa goddess turned away to begin pacing side to side behind Freya, watching him with her large blue eyes as she did. The pitch of her words came lower. "Do not pretend you don't know."

Freya spoke finally, her words feminine but loud: "No, let us be clear and honest here. Sin de Rath bears the weight of a dark power well beyond his ability, but he has not fallen to its whispers or any other. I presume you already know, but an old god has risen in Storm Peaks, unchained and in the full of his power, and already his armies spill over the planet, burning and destroying all they come across."

Sin did not raise his eyes to her, too worried about looking up her skirt again, but he nodded, fist tight over the growling _Shed'lahk._ "I am aware. That is my reason for taking the Waygate from Un'Goro Crater to here, to take the fight to it. Those... men back there, you know who they were, but now they seek to help combat this new one, to prove their change of heart."

A menacing growl from Har'koa, and one of her hulking paws pushed over a leaning tree with a loud crack and crash. She snapped, "Do not play snake with us, Sin. You come carrying the Bane-Heart. You bring with you scores of aqir soldiers – the minions of the old gods! And you head an army of cultists, burning with dark powers, dark _desires_ that I could feel with proximity. Those balloon-headed elves sent a warden after you, and it is very clear why- and that crass bitch is trying to spy on us!"

Har'koa turned her head back towards the way they had come from, and she roared clear and loud, giving a satisfied snort after. "She'll be feeling that for a week."

Freya gave a disapproving sigh. "There are cleaner ways, sister. Let her try to focus that listening spell with a nymph distracting her."

The remark only stretched the loa's lips wider. "The chatter of fey folk will make the headache that much worse." Her tail lashed out with an angry snap.

The awareness of them, the ease in which dealt with Narelle as if she were but a child, was a reminder of who Sin stood before. He slowly gathered his camouflaging cloak around him, wishing it could grant total invisibility. He took a breath and made a stand though, dragging attention back to him, "In recent days, I have made... very difficult decisions, for many right reasons done in many wrong ways. I understand suspicion, and I do not blame you for it, but I promise, as you know me, that I remain myself through it all."

"Difficult decisions?" Har'koa asked, and she shook with mocking laughter. Waving her head towards Freya she said, "He thinks his choices have been difficult!"

"Hush," the life goddess told her.

Har'koa wasn't deterred. Rounding upon Sin and slamming her paw before him, her face leaned in close. Like that, it was easier to tell that the voice they heard did not come from her throat. "Zul'Drek was lost twenty days ago, only two days after Ghat'Nothos came. My high priest, my followers – everyone in the troll lands is dead. In Storm Peaks, Thorim, Hodir, Mimiron, they were dead on the very first day. Freya lived only because she was behind the barrier of the basin when they came. Me, because my brother and sister loa gave me warning and _all_ of their combined strength just to flee. We are the last eternals to still live across all of Azeroth, Sin. Do you understand where we are now?"

Sin couldn't reply. His mouth opened and closed, and then he turned away to lean against one of the trees, his head suddenly aching under a flurry of violent thoughts. To kill the mortals, to overthrow kingdoms, was one matter – to butcher all of the eternals, and so quickly, was another entirely. Never had the world witnessed an old god at full power... not since the titans had been here to combat them, and even then, C'Thun had defeated one before his own sealing.

No wonder the snow leopard goddess was so paranoid, so quick to suspect. She had lost everything – likely had to abandon her own people just to escape with her life, even as they still died. Because death was not the same to an eternal. There were far worse fates for them, if captured. The two had overcome such a fate for Har'koa and the other loa once before.

Freya was the last titanic watcher? Sin had sudden thoughts of Algalon, of the re-origination of the world. What other beacons had been activated now?

"She is mostly correct," Freya mentioned, morose. "Those who maintain the Halls of Origination have also perished, but Tyr had been beyond reach for some time. We, when there was still a we to speculate, assumed he had taken to watching over the mortals, granting his blessing and shaping their futures. The paladins of your kind especially bare his sigil, not just his silver hand, but signs of his power and blessing. He might even personally reside over a chosen champion."

Sin took a long moment to let the words sink in. He had no immediate response, only concerns and many questions. He always felt meek before beings of such power, always willing to lend them aid as he could – for it was right to honor ones elders, and the mortals were always so low on the chain. But even as he thought to offer his hand, responsibilities cropped up, and his spine stiffened against his will.

"Do not strike against the qiraji Battleguards," Sin told them abruptly. He blinked in surprise at his own bold words, and their attention tightened over him. Like before, in Silithus, he felt as if watching a theater play of himself again, letting the actor follow its script. "I ferried them here because I know them to have turned from the old gods. They seek peace, from extinction, and asked for my aid to escape the grasp of this new god. That hive is the home I offered them. The cultists behind me, they are no more than a band of bandits. They are hardened by the desert, and they are excellent killers. I can use them, as long as I can, to fight."

He paused, then faced them again, looking into their eyes – even up into Freya's. _"Shed'lahk_ is a terrible curse, but its power is great, and I can use that too. I need every scrape of help I can get to fight this old god. They say they cannot be defeated by mortals, but I say fuck that. We are resilient and surprising as fuck when it comes to what we can do. We will fight. Tell me, what hope is there? Who else in this world will help us fight? Will you join us? Har'koa, will you fight beside me once again?"

The goddesses did not answer him. They looked to each other, wordless, until Har'koa sat herself on the grassy floor. Freya then looked to the north-west, peering with wizened, melancholy eyes. Har'koa waited.

"That is a no then?" Sin asked, with far more bite than intended. "You will cower here, while the world marches to its own defeat?"

Har'koa growled in a dangerous way, but her head never turned from Freya. The life goddess sighed, and still looking into the distance, over the trees, said, "Do not assume we live in the same manner as you, Sin de Rath. The battles we take are on different fields, and our powers best used elsewhere. We do not live solely on the physical plane, as you do."

"_Melar Adare te rikk Parn!"_ Sin snapped back, his tone seething. The Demonic words came harshly, the Eredun language no longer the pleasant one of the draenei. During it, he lifted _Shed'lahk_ and slammed the butt down once, sending out a dark thrum of power. Both goddesses recoiled.

This time, Sin could not hold himself back. He knew to honor his elders, to respect the beings who lived beyond the mortals, but this time, Sin found himself on equal ground as them. No longer did they play in separate fields, gaped by age, experience, power, and existence.

"Do not assume, great goddess, that we live so differently," he said coldly. "You know I carry the Bane-Heart. You know _Shed'lahk_ – you might even know its terrible place involving _Shed'Beshal,_ and the prisoner therein. I am the Warden, the Keeper, of things well beyond the mortal plane. I am a human of higher duties, higher purpose, and with Light and Shadow as my witness, I am a human of higher _power._

"Today, in these battles against the one you named Ghat'Nothos, no one plays in a different field. Thorim was slain in combat on his very mountain, wasn't he? The trolls, they died in the field of battle here, not in the world of spirits and dead, didn't they? You two – you two _especially_ – I have great respect and honor for. Har'koa, we fought side by side again foes larger than either of us, against a foe neither of us could have overcome alone. Freya, I marched with thirty-nine others into the depths of Yogg'Saron's Ulduar to break free your mind from his chains, and it was your healing touch that kept the heroes sane through their trials against the Beast.

"So if you will not leave the basin, if you will remain here, plotting and planning in your supernatural planes, then I will not argue with you, and I will not disdain your decision. But I will label you cowards, for in these days, the fight is happening on the mortal plane, in mortal lands, but the battle is not exclusive to the mortals. So I ask you one last time, will you aid yourselves to my cause... even if you offer nothing more than direction towards other heroes?"

Both of them remained silent for a moment longer, expressions unnerved by his bold words, by his direct accusations. Passionate mortals, that's what Sin and his kind were, and he took joy in reminding them of it. Even a powerful warlock like him was not immortal, not like the goddesses, so mortals had reason to boldly step forward as much as they could until their time ran out.

"Sin..." Freya started, her voice carefully drained of emotion, "Leave _Shed'lahk_ here, unprotected for any to take up, and march to the old god in the throes my grandest army."

What riddle was this? "Leave my burden for any to free That Which Dwells Below? I cannot do that."

"Then do not expect the same from us!" Har'koa roared, scaring flocks of birds from the nearby trees. She was a passionate goddess, and it was well to see her without the same ancient sadness of when she had lost her brothers and sisters.

"I can do both!" Sin declared, but his rationale was overriding his emotion once again. The shadows were returning to his mind. "I can take _Shed'lahk_ with me to battle, to protect even as I fight – and you can do both as well, if you try. You know you can."

"Yes, let Freya strap the basin and the pillars to her back," Har'koa rebuffed. She paused to take a calming breath. "Sin, I am loath to know you as the Keeper of the Bane-Heart, but you must understand what position we are in. Freya's duty is to preserve the basin, this oasis of life. When Yogg'Saron came, she failed that, and one pillar was lost, to unleash the full force of the Scourge through the avalanche. You know this, for you are the one who rode the Etymidian from Un'Goro through the Waygate to eliminate them. Now she is back herself to perform the tasks, to defend the basin, but it is no longer a mortal princeling and an undead host trying to batter the walls down.

"An old god surrounds the walls, pressing tighter every day, and his forces are slipping through despite her best watch. The titans are needed to combat this foe, this Ghat'Nothos, and if the basins are lost, if Sholazar Basin and Un'Goro Crater are lost, if even one pillar or pylon falls, then in the eyes of the gods, Azeroth is lost. That is why I am here, to not just hide but to defend, through all of the strength of the loa through I and my brood, to ensure that Azeroth is not beyond redemption. That is our battle."

"Then let us go," Sin told her, stoic. "That army of killers is mine, ready to try for the sake of our world. And leave the qiraji be, for that was my promise, my contract. Just offer me direction: where should we go? Where can we do the most harm to the old god?"

Freya knelt. It was a slow, powerful thing, to see a being of her size carefully stretch out her leg and bend so much mass down to be at better level with one mortal. Her staff was of help, planted like an oak into the ground as she came. Then her colossal head was craned down near him, fey and alien to a simple human.

"We will let you go," she told him softly, her whisper like a strong gust of wind. Har'koa's tail whipped the announcement, but there was a pleasant chuckle from Freya. "And I will grant you the information you seek. I am sorry we cannot provide what you ask, but I am glad you do not see us as your enemies. The land whispers to me of Icecrown, that where it all ended, so must it all begin again, for the power left behind can be rallied to new banners and new purpose. But the roots squirm with complaint, the trees scream of darkness, spreading throughout the land in other forms. A new cult has risen, and just as before, the old god shall use them to pass without restraint into the basin.

"Take your direction, Sin de Rath. Into the forest of Crystalsong, where magic and nature are in a harmony more twisted than the Nether, you will find the center of this cult, and from there, with new powers in hand, marching north-west into Icecrown will provide you all the assistance you will need to ensure the battle you seek against the old god."

Sin stood there with furrowed brows, trying to process her foretelling and make from it plans. Har'koa's deep, growling voice mentioned, "That is not all, sister."

The goddess nodded agreement. "Take with you our blessings. I grant you boon, with no demand, no contract, to use as best you can. Inside you brews the power of nature, to be as unyielding as oak, to bend as easy as a sapling. You may speak to the forest with my authority, and they will speak back. When the burden of the Bane-Heart is great, let it try the entangling roots of the forest. Let your will, in times of trial, know the vastness of the endless woods, emboldened by as much unity. So is my blessing."

As she spoke, there was no glow of magic, no sign of working weaves, but Sin could feel it, the... blossoming of something new inside, something that smelled of freshly turned soil, of the air after rains, of many leafs through a strong gale. It did not merge or touch his mana, but it resided beside it, for access, and Sin knew her gift of power. He could not help falling to his knees, bowing his head in reverence.

Such gifts came with costs, with collars. It was unheard of to receive without one.

"I am not so kind as she," came the sly voice of Har'koa. "My boon comes at the cost of debt. No longer do you hold a deed to my name, Sin de Rath. To behold me again, to speak to me, you will do as a mortal to a goddess, and you will hope that experience had established friendship, but my boon is yours:

"You possess some big mojo, mortal, but now you shall have that of the troll gods. Let the primal songs of the loa beat within your chest, in your loins, in your head. Any will that vies with yours must first overcome the gods, until the only beat is the drum of death. And from me, know the patient power of the leopards, know the path to subtlety, of the Prowl. The shadows are yours, Sin de Rath. Make use of it!"

Sin's heartbeat grew louder and louder with her words, pounding until it was indeed like a drum, and it beat into his ears with relentless insistence, declaring with her words that it would do so through any foe. End that song of his life, of his mojo – it dared them!

Nearly prostrate before them, Sin remained unmoving for a long moment. Two divine powers had been blessed into him, with neither temporary or with binding costs. He was not contracted to be Har'koa's High Priest until his death, he was not signed by blood to warden the forests for Freya for centuries until the power was gone. They bestowed gifts, with terrible trusts, at the costs of themselves.

Sin could not bear such honor. "My turn," he whispered. He lifted his head, and with _Shed'lahk_ as a brace, he pushed himself to his feet, drawing forward as much mana as he possessed.

_You do not have the power!_ _Shed'lahk_ mocked within his mind, holding out the offer of its own strength. Sin rejected it violently, telling himself it was time to make tribute to his mother's fantastic training. She did not teach him specific spells; she taught him the fluidity of spell-weaving, to create as big as he wished.

His soulstone was brought into sight. He sucked the soul back into himself, but the base form remained as he worked magics around it. Black bars impaled it, then stretched and contorted like liquid glass, only to stretch further still. The purple orb remained in the center, but it was bound and wrapped by black shadow-glass.

Sin began to fear the cost of the spell, as his available mana was waning as he shifted his magic to the fel. Green light erupted from the dark depths, and thorns split down the length, going beyond even to make a sort of scepter of the object. The burning, molten energy of _Shed'lahk_ was there, inching itself towards his will to boost him the rest of the way, but Sin rejected it, instead taking from Freya's gift in the final moment.

Nature magic was foreign to Sin, even this late in his life. He knew sorcery, as the Dalaran scholars did, but never druidism or shamanism. Still, it molded easily, and the rest of the weave only erupted thick, leafy vines in long rods that bend and curved back to form an hourglass shape from it, like the handles for a lantern.

When it finished, Sin gasped out a loud breath, slumping against _Shed'lahk_ for balance. He did not have the energy to resist its astral tendrils, feeling them slide deeper within him and bury thorns tighter around his heart and soul, but he laughed softly to himself, staring at what he made.

Testing the song inside his him, he focused on its beat as he straightened himself, and immediately _Shed'lahk_ lost its threat over him. The tendrils did not just slide out again – they vanished as cleanly as his body did behind the cloak. With a smile, he set the arcane contraption on the ground, nodding at the two goddesses.

"You give without asking. Most mortals might take such an honor without thought, but I know very well what you two have just done, and in return I present you this gift." He paused to take a very heavy breaths, knowing he was exhausted. "Best I can say, I just made a portable summoning circle, tied only to my soul. Activate the stone at the center, and..."

He did, and then the fel-shadow of a demonic circle did not just appear – it erupted with bright fury, spilling over the area, and the top dripped its shadows done to form a full cocoon all the way to the liquid bottom. He nodded, grinning wider at the feeling inside, a small tug towards it, same as a regular circle, allowing him to jump exactly to it.

"Do that, and I can be to you in an instant. You know my battles, so never summon me lightly. But should the day come that the power of two is no longer enough, then I will understand your urgency, and your gifts shall be returned tenfold with all of my ability."

Freydis smiled at the offering, and she took the lantern-shaped devise in a large fist. "You honor us, Sin de Rath, to offer your self as a gift of freewill. I promise that use of this contraption will not be taken whimsically, and only if such a summoning will determine the difference in the fate of our battle." Har'koa nodded agreement.

Finally, Freya stood again, and Sin's eyes quickly averted from staring up at her. In her sweet, resonating voice, Freya said, "There is but one more word of advice for you. Though your band of one hundred is a remarkable host, you should appeal to your qiraji one last time to aid your cause. The aqir were the deadliest warriors to ever roam this world, and they possess powers essential to your success."

_Sekara,_ Sin recalled, that sweet girl of an alien mind. He wondered how they were fitting in, with Northrend's silithid. With a slanted look Freya's way, he considered her proposal. He would prefer the additions, but they sought peace, not war. By the Shadow, the whole world sought peace, but they needed to rise against this threat. He'd make the visit, and so nodded to the goddesses.

With that conclusion, Har'koa led the way back towards the river.

XxX

In the few days since Sin had seen them, the qiraji had not been idle. Peppering the area of the hive, black obelisks had been erected, each bearing scarab insignias in teals and golds. Sin rode under a stone archway, ducking his head, while the powerful dreadsteed beneath him snorted loudly at the movements.

He was surprised at the extent of the masonry in such short time. The silithid could explain it; they were diggers, tunnelers, burrowers, and their hives were specifically carved out of stone before the growth crept over the walls. An actual complex, closing upon the status of a village even, now surrounded the main entrance of the hive.

Shortly into their intrusion, there was the passing by of a particularly swift buzz. The whole clearing was filled with unnaturally deep sounding swarms, and the qiraji, hidden though they were, only added to that. Still, he knew they were noticed, from the pass of the scout, and shortly after, there was a throaty roar from the mouth of the hive as a collection of Battleguards approached.

They darted out in quick bolts, and soon half a score of them descended upon Sin in an excited bubble. The qiraji did not chatter or show facial expression – at least not often – but from the pull of their shoulders, the clenching of their talon'd feet, he knew them to actually feel some form of elation at his return.

Sekara was with them, in vest and harem pants, and the black half of her face betrayed a very human smile for him. Hovering at the front, she greeted, "Sin de Raas."

"My lovely Sekara," Sin returned, bowing his head, and he jumped at the sudden soft collision of her jumping into him and squeezing. He reminded himself of the way she had gleaned human expressions, actions, even thoughts from him, the same as he had done from them. He returned her hug gently, with a smile of his own.

"Ask them," a curt voice demanded from his side. Sin turned his head to see Narelle rubbing at hers. One of her hands plugged an ear, turning away from the roar of qiraji wings, and his lip turned up at the side – truly, Har'koa's reprimand was unyielding.

To Sekara, Sin asked with jolly patronization, "What did I tell you about the sound of your wings?"

All at once, the qiraji stopped hovering and touched to the ground – even the more distant buzzes silencing – and Sin dismissed his dreadsteed to touch the ground with his own feet, now holding Sekara in a bridal carry. The light woman was turned about and set on her own feet, facing him again, and they stood apart.

"Why Sin's return?" she asked finally. He noticed that Ressact, his old medium, was not among the ones to greet him. Poor qiraji was likely sick of the grating human tongue.

"We'll get there," he assured, waving a dismissive hand. Then he gestured to the stone complex. "I am curious about this. Nothing says "Qiraji are in here" more than sigils and obelisks. Not very subtle, I'd say."

Sekara gave a shrug of her shoulders, showing off the two pincers still clinging there. "Home."

Sin glanced towards Narelle, but the night elf seemed too distracted to notice the implications. Even as minions of old gods, the qiraji were not like the Others of the Twisting Nether. They knew pride, comfort, and favored familiarity. Even foreign, they were similar.

Looking back to Sekara, he was drawn to her teal eyes, but not as if she was trying to form the bond. They just sparkled well in the light, and unlike his own eyes, they were dry, uniform in color, and they were laced through with facets like that of a bug's. Under the intense study, he noticed the way her eyelids jumped up to make them wider, and excitement – both human and qiraji – shone from her. With a red nub, she touched him and pulled at his sleeve, gesturing him to follow as she once did long ago.

Sin did not look back to where Darnin and Jern were standing among the brush, or where the other bandits were staked in vantage points along the ruins, waiting and ready. He accepted the offer gladly, letting her take him through the crowd of Battleguards towards the hive mouth. Narelle followed reluctantly.

For the best, Sekara did not intend to take him into the hive itself, instead stopping before its entrance. Narelle loudly caught his attention then as she cursed, "Fuck! The last thing I needed right now." She turned to pace back a few steps, rubbing her head, and she muttered quieter, "Fucking qiraji writing."

Sin looked up, to the mounted stone slab above the upper rim. Indeed, he recognized with a start the slashed, harsh runic writing of the qiraji, but unlike the time he had struggled with it, it did not lance through his mind like a psychic spike with each symbol. For whatever reason, most races' minds had violent backlashes to trying to comprehend the letterings. This time, Sin could follow the intent of each stroke easily, and though he couldn't make sense of all of them, he recognized the uniform, fluid beauty of the letters. Finely detailed, intricate, deceptive carvings.

Beneath the inscription, however, was an embellished scene. At the sight of it, a slimy, cold feeling crept down Sin's back with agonizing slowness. Fear, he recognized, and so much worry. The sisters were obvious, as fly-winged figures wielding deadly scythe arms. At the center was one separate from the rest, depicted as entirely nude, even her mouth unveiled, and a yellow stone surrounded her head like bright rays. Sekara, he suspected.

At the bottom of the scene, standing below the endless swarms of proud sisters, was a figure in a purple-stone robe, with skin of rich brown made of some smooth clay. That was Sin, obviously, but it was what the figure carried that had Sin in sudden unease. His fingers tightened over the object in question: _Shed'lahk._

It was no staff that the picture-Sin carried. It was a pillar of obsidian, flaking thick, pervasive strands of black around his clay arm, into the ground to stretch as an endless black pool. One fine strand left the pillar upwards, encircling Sekara in a thin cocoon, and it reached higher still to form a black orb (moon?) high in the sky, beside the glittering white sun. And he noticed all the sisters, even Sekara in the center, looked upwards in awe to the black ball of liquid darkness.

His mind itched and scratched then, and Sin winced at the unpleasantness. It wasn't the tendrils of _Shed'lahk,_ but something suddenly took from him his comprehensive thoughts to replace them with wordless screams, and with a powerful wave of pain, his eyes beheld again the words etched above.

It was no wonder the mortal races felt pain when reading the language of the qiraji. There were not words, they were not pictures to be read. They were psychic commands, to implant the desired thoughts within. The letters were metaphysical runes.

_The Master Has Risen._ Sin's mind put it into words, as it struggled to do, but the thoughts were still raw as he stared. A vast darkness, unending, all-consuming, where even Light in all its blazing brightness would be dwarfed and lost. That darkness, that Shadow, had risen – arrived, appeared, formed, conjured, summoned – onto the mortal, the physical plane, on the land that was the land of qiraji, aqir, family, life. And it came for Purpose – its unspoken purpose, its undebated purpose, for it had one goal that was always recognized: to bring about chaos and darkness and expel, consume, devour with endless hunger all life and order. It was the master of the qiraji, this universe, of all that is, was, and will be.

With a short cry, Sin turned away. He could not see, could not think. His eyes and head were burning with endless fire, and in the terrible moment, there was a roar of unadulterated victory inside him, as an endless amount of tiny hooks finished burrowing into muscle and bone, then took to controlling his body as it was.

Blind now, he felt the pounding song of the loa struggle valiantly, but it held no support in the battle of wills. Sin's magic was taken and used, summoning something he felt was familiar but couldn't place. There was noise, there was chaos, and instincts told him to return to himself. The power of the forest was sealed in a cage of shadow and flame.

Sin felt bruised and battered, defeated by forces he did not understand. He felt young again, in the age before words, where the world was a place of bright colors and loud sounds that he couldn't make sense of. He gained vision then, of a time too early to remember. His hand was red and slicked with fluid, and his throat hurt from his screams of air.

"_You must cast it away. If you do not, it will bring to all worlds a darkness that this universe is not prepared for. It will rape and consume all that is, until after centuries of feasting and destruction, it will fall into the dreamless sleep of power, digesting what _is,_ only to wake later to finish the task."_

"_That darkness is my own. It is my burden to carry, my sin. My son cannot be blamed wholly for what lays in my hands. His sin is my sin. The sin of my sin... Yes, that will be his name, his brand. It will seal the contract of his great and terrible purpose, and through it, he will learn to fight."_

"_My lady, you make no _sense._ He cannot fight this fate. He will take upon himself the Bane-Heart and return it to the Tree. He will release the beast."_

"_You underestimate a de'Rath, and you assume too little of the universe. I have learned that magic can fight itself, fight even the certainty of fate, and it begins with the breaking of what cannot be broken. You contract him to this fate, and he will come to break that contract."_

"_My lady. My lady. My lady..." _the voice faded with each repetition, until Sin had finally gained awareness of himself again.

He called upon himself the control of a broken mind. Like carrying a dozen fruit in hand, it seemed impossible until he fastened a blanket of shadow to collect the pieces in a rucksack. But though the brain lacked, the heart beat strong, and Sin mustered will without control, from the bestial, and the powerful, unending beat grew to volumes of a pounding drum. The loa...

Together, Sin threw his final assault against his own body. He found his arms, his legs, his neck and hands – and he pushed away all of the tiny hooks spread through him. Something offered resistance, but it was not enough, and soon Sin had control of his own body again. The cage of shadow and flame was busted open, and he flooded himself with gentle nature and song, and the soothing touch of gentle rains and a bubbling brook touched his blind eyes.

Sin blinked away blood as his eyes finally opened. He noticed a world of darkness and brightness, coming in the shade of crimsons. He realized a second later that was not lingering blood, but the color of the world before him.

A black, churning sky split to emit a flaming meteor of bright reds, and it crashed into the ground with thundering fury. Deep, resounding booms created tremors through his body and the land. To the left, he noticed a dark skinned woman screaming with fear and rage, fighting against thorny branches as they punctured her skin and pulled her to the ground, dragging her deeper inside. A black bow was before her, and arrows scattered all around it.

Looming over them, pitch even through the flashing lights, was a tree that moved when it should not. The Nether had fled its presence, but the power remained in swirls of green and purple, washing over the black limbs in impatient frenzy. Sin noticed _Shed'lahk_ dwarfed in a fist that was not his own, for it was hulking and monstrous, colored in mahogany skin split to reveal veins of bright fire. Bones split the skin in sharp spikes, still dripping with red and fel blood.

There was so much pain, even through the song of the loa and the fury of nature. Sin opened his mouth and screamed. What his ears heard was a roar belonging more to a tyrannosaurus rex of Un'Goro, and the very world trembled at the sound. The black stick of the Heart was thrust into the ground, and the very earth heaved up and split with terrible vengeance.

From the sky, a final storm of hundreds of meteors split the thick clouds of smoke and ash, and they centered upon the heaving sentinel of _Shed'Beshal._ He was alone, without word or thought of warning at what might happen then. Sin did not care to wait at the result. He commanded an intent beyond what he possessed, and the universe changed what _was_ to what Sin wanted it to _be_.

The blue sky of Azeroth appeared like the flick of a switch, and all the ash and flames vanished at once. The earth had split in a vast furrow, deep enough to make out the frozen, sleeping shape of something impossibly inhuman deep, deep Down Below. He stared with unwavering, trembling attention, as he noticed that the wide circle there was a glazed Eye, peering Back without Seeing.

The Evil Of No Name.

In that moment of dread, Sin decided to change the game. So far lost, barely recoverable, he opened his maw and roared in the tongue of the demons, _"From the prison of your existence I Name you Beshalahk! Forever will you be Bound to it and its meaning, to vie for its independence as all beings of the Twisting Nether do! Hear me, Beshalahk, and know my hold over your Name!"_

The white, glazed tint over the Eye of Below began to dissipate, darkening the organ until the pupil became obvious. If It even twitched, if It showed even a hint of wakening, Sin knew he might try to stop his own heart before it could cast him upon a worse fate. He felt such fear at the change over the eye, and he stared with wide eyes until he could bear waiting no longer.

With will and mana, Sin slammed _Shed'lahk_ into the earth again, and the chasm began to seal itself shut again, heaving the ground beneath his feet. The eye stared back blankly, watching and watching until it was only a tunnel between It and Sin. Then it was shut, sealed, and _Shed'Beshal_ was sealed once again.

When it was done, and the area was one of beauty again, Sin heaved out a great breath. His body trembled and shook, and he began the work of transforming it back into his human shape. Such dread, such mind-shattering fear, at just the Sleeping State of the Bane-God.

With bloodshot and weary eyes, Sin gave a haggard stare at the motionless tree named _Shed'Beshal._ He collapsed onto his ass, legs unable to support him any longer, with _Shed'lahk_ falling across his lap. For now, fear and adrenaline masked the pounding migraine, but soon enough, he knew it would be piercing his skull with every bit of ferocity he missed from communicating with the qiraji.

At a violent shuffling sound, Sin glanced to the left, where he saw a small thorn bush shaking, far more active than the other prison cells. Though his exhaustion and stress had him feeling weak within, Sin's body felt tenacious and strong still as he pointed his staff at the bush and commanded it to wither.

From the roots, a gloved hand broke free of the soil, grasping the ground and dragging a body up. Narelle collapsed once she was free, curling up into a shaking ball, with red blood smeared over the many parts of exposed skin. Sin surprised himself by feeling pity for her, even if his sympathy was overshadowed by his own experiences in this.

_Beshalahk._

Thinking the name sent a pulse of dense dread through Sin again, and he pitched over to vomit whatever breakfast he had eaten. Light and Shadow, what was he doing here in the Nether? Staring at the tan-white expulsion, he grimaced and leaned back into a sit again, wiping his mouth. Last he remembered, he had been with Sekara at the hive, and now he was in the Nether, wrestling with one of the darkest forces in the universe, with some elf bitch bent on killing him.

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, then planted _Shed'lahk_ to help him stand once again. The demonic entity within the staff was silent then, finding defeat so close to victory, while the song of his heartbeat still pounded in his ears. Sin shuffled over to the night elf warden.

True to its nature, the warden cloak was completely undamaged, though it lay bunched towards the dead thorn bush and away from her nearly bare, trembling body. Many of her blades were missing from their clips and sheaths, and her skin had pock-marks and deep scratches from the thorns.

In the Nether, Sin did not need to know healing magics to help her. Bending to a knee, he reached his hand out and grasped her tight fist. In a flash of fel light, all of her wounds sealed close, leaving a wholesome elven body behind, and Narelle gasped between gritted teeth.

With a firm grip on her hand and then shoulder, Sin pulled her up until she was sitting, then fell down beside her, able to manage no more. They sat together, panting each, with Sin's hand still tight around hers. Neither said anything.

Eventually, Sin decided he needed to fill their silence, to help her make sense of some of the horrors she had just been exposed to. "That, dear warden... That is why your presence is necessary in my existence. The qiraji, the Watchers, the bandits, the old god... They mean nothing to me, when faced with this terrible charge. This is why my control is paramount in importance, this is why _Shed'lahk_ must never be cast away, to one day fall into another's hands. I am the Keeper, the Warden, of forces darker than anyone on Azeroth knows. This place is the prison I reside over. That is my duty, and now... now, I hope you know your place in it."

Three seconds precisely was the wait before she breathed with a dark, shaken bitterness, "What... the fuck, Sin." Her gloved fist shoved his hand off, then it tightly grasped it instead. She swallowed once, but then shook her head, spongy ears bouncing. It wasn't often he saw her without her hawk helmet.

"You'll have nightmares," he told her. "You'll see things you never thought your mind could conjure, and you'll go to bed each night dreading the moment you close your eyes. I am sorry for that... but it will get better, in time. I can promise you that. Narelle Blackmoon, I am going to place great trust in you. I will treat you as someone closer than a mother or sister, more intimate than a soulmate, because it will be necessary, but I need you to at least attempt the same. Can you do that, for the sake of both of us, and for the sake of so much more?"

Weary, yet defiant, eyes turned his way. The silver seemed faded, like watching the moon through thick clouds, but there was a hardness to her being that Sin recognized and respected. Quietly, she told him, "You cannot be trusted."

He nodded, agreeing completely. "Sometimes I can, but that uncertainty will never change. All I ask is a pact of silence and secrecy between us, of a loyalty to this cause over that of your Watchers calling your return. As a gesture of good faith, I will begin with answering every question you have will all honesty: about _Shed'lahk,_ about _Shed'Beshal,_ anything you wish."

"And about _Beshalah-"_

Sin cut her off with a finger against her lips, and his eyes were wide with sudden intensity. After a moment, he gave a reluctant nod, but he left his finger there. "About that too, but you must _not_ speak its Name, and certainly not on these hallowed grounds. It can _hear_, and if it can hear, it can _perceive,_ and if it can perceive, it can be _awake."_

She stared at him for a few seconds before nodding her acceptance. Sin nodded himself, sealing it, then pushed himself to weary feet. He offered his hand. "Then come along now, dear warden. We must first secure qiraji loyalty, then we will battle on different fronts." She accepted the hand.

XxX

Things were abuzz back at the qiraji complex. Swarms of Battleguards were combing the area in small cells, frantically searching for something. A few dozen others – for it seemed all of them had been called out of the hive – encircled the bandits, who once again were a cursing, riotous mess.

Sin's portal from the Nether back to Azeroth left he and Narelle before a distant stone wall, able to watch the happenings in isolated peace. The night elf, though apparently calm and collected, still remained stiff with tension, her eyes searching with a new paranoia. His hand touched the skin of her back, and she gave a small stat at it, turning with her crescent blade already in hand.

"There are no monsters here. I promise you," he told her, not even glancing at the threatening blade. "If you wish to avoid confrontation, I suggest you take to the shadows, if you can."

How could anyone submerge themselves into darkness after beholding the horrors of the Beast Below _Shed'Beshal?_ Narelle seemed to recognize that too, and she shook her head. He kept the pity from his face, for her pride's sake. Turning a hard gaze towards the disputing bandits and qiraji, he told her, "Always remember, Lady Blackmoon, that you aren't alone in this."

He made his way forward boldly. His steadfast resolve surprised him; he fared no better than Narelle after finding himself broken and possessed by the entity of _Shed'lahk,_ but because she was new to the dark experience, he wanted to display a bold, confident face to her, to provide steady ground. Light, but he was somehow believing his own act!

"Well, well!" he called out to the shouting mass. "I see everyone is reacquainting nicely!"

Handon swatted aside the nearest battleguard as he stomped forward, his cleaver wielded in one skeletal hand. "Where the _fuck_ were you this time? Hell's Bells, you just roar in your blighted demon-tongue, rip open the fucking ground in a green light, and your elf bitch follows with her bow out-!"

He was stopped by Darnin, as it often went, but the other bandit leader did not seem any more pleased. "Something you should be telling us, Specter?"

"Yeah," Sin told him off-hand. His attention was focusing on Sekara, who hovered silently near the qiraji inscription still. "Kil'jaeden plays a mean game of chess. Lo, Bugsy!"

"Specter!" Darnin scolded dangerously, but Sin was moving beyond him. Let Darnin watch now, and he would learn as he did with his keen attention.

"I see the qiraji aren't beyond pride," Sin continued to Sekara. "Such proud, brazen people, you qiraji are. Do you remember, Bugsy, the words we shared in Hive'Ashi? About your communication?"

Sekara displayed agitation. Her teal eyes did not quite look at him. "Sin..." she started, but she said no more.

Sin was to her then, and she cowered back to the ground, landing and stilling her wings. His arm went around her back, firm but not harsh, and he turned her towards the plaque. Without looking, he reached up with _Shed'lahk_ and tapped the stone with it for emphasis.

"I understand what you mean by this, Sekara. I am not angry. In fact, you honor me by memorializing our time in your stones. But this, this right here... You never told me you knew _Shed'lahk._ You never told me you could feel its power, that you knew I controlled it."

Her wings fluttered briefly. He could feel the wind of it, could feel the tight pull of her back muscles.

"Your words penetrated my mind. They broke my control, and what you saw, that was _Shed'lahk_ controlling _me._ I need to know right now, Sekara, is it me that you are loyal to... or is it _Shed'lahk?_ Who is your master?"

Though her words were quiet, there was no hesitation: "Sekara follows Sin de Rath."

"_Shed'lahk_ is my enemy, Sekara. I fight it. Will you fight it with me?"

Again: "Sekara follows Sin de Rath."

"Right now, I march from lands of peace to battle the new master-queen-controller. I fight, when I want peace. I came back because I want the sisters to fight with me, to kill my enemies. Will you fight with me?"

"Sekara follows Sin de Rath."

"And does Sekara speak for the sisters? Will they leave this home we have found, to risk extinction and fight with me?"

Her head turned his way, the black face tight with steely resolve, and her eyes bore into his.

"Sisters follows Sin de Rath."

He smiled gently, nodding to her. She smiled back. Still holding her, with the others gathering at his back, he announced, "We have a long march before us. The blessings of the gods favors us, and they have set our course. We will march south, out of the basin, and follow the mountains east all the way to the Great Dragonblight. There, we turn north, into the realm of the lost... Crystalsong Forest. And we will pray, close friends, that the nature goddess' blessing will see us through our task."

"Lo, Specter," a surely voice called from behind Sin. It was the gruff, but amused, Jern, "You're as damned as us, aren't you? How many collars do you wear right now?"

Sin's smile stretched, and his eyes sparkled in a mad way. "The question, friend, is how many _keys_ do I now hold?"

* * *

AN: Well, back at it again. I've got a few chapters of Stage Two already written, but unedited. It's proving to be a longer Stage than expected, but so it goes: I promised an epic, and by God, you are all getting an epic. Frankly, I still want to go back and touch up the opening chapters of the story (prologues), and I caught several errors since I last updated WotSE that I'll get around to fixing soon (first sentence of Chapter 12 "It was the end of their second day inside the desert" Un'Goro, a desert. Bah, typos).

Anyway, the bulk of Stage Two will be Drekthac and Malthon, but I wanted to set a grander, more exciting stage for the world, and there's no one better than Sin to do that. Seriously, Sin gets all the fun, while Malthon gets all the shit. Poor Malthon.


	17. Chapter 15: Drums of War

Chapter 15

_Drums of War_

* * *

X Ymirjar X

Drekthac stopped his charge when he noticed those around him had curiously stilled. Sweeping his gaze back and forth, he noticed the many Ymirheim warriors now faced him, and he put his back to a boulder to face them all. Never, during a war game, had they stopped like this – even the enemy had ceased their combat to face him.

Glancing upwards, he saw the many val'kyr waiting patiently to perform their duties, with Maldrid among them.

In their tongue, he demanded, _"What be this?"_ His two swords clashed in frustration, sending a deep ring through the silence.

Britta, the wily huntress, leaned towards him with a wide grin beneath her hood. "We be decide hooman need death experience."

Drekthac's left eye twitched as he thought over her words. Jabbing both swords into the snow and ripping off his helmet, he demanded, _"So fight you all against me?"_

Pleased growls escaped most of them, and there were many nods. There had to be a hundred men and women gathered around him, looking to him. Drekthac glowered at them, and this absurd challenge. Truly, in the nearly two weeks time he had lived here, Drekthac had yet to die in battle – certainly Maldrid had been needed to heal him, but never to revive him from full death.

This was to be an execution. Without the helmet, he could see clearer around him, and he noticed one particular val'kyr flying forward, eager for a better vantage point. He noticed, with some disdain, it was Hilda, the so-called queen. She was smiling at him, like a large cat does its prey.

To Britta, Drekthac gestured one of his swords and said, _"This up you ass, you bitch."_ Tired of his struggling Vrykul, Drekthac shoved his helmet back over his head, buckling it in place, and he shouted at them all, "If that's how you'll have it, then come at me!"

There was no warning. In the same moment he reached for his swords, Britta had her bow raised and fired. Drekthac dove aside, ripping free his swords, and all at once his brothers and sisters clamored forward for his life. Britta's hearty laugh followed his every action.

By then, it was no secret that Drekthac not only deserved his place among the Ymirjar, but he was one of the greatest among them. In the war games, he was undefeated, and his brothers often looked to him for the decisions of where and to whom to strike. Their team had lost under his command, certainly, but never in battle when fighting with Drekthac.

Now, those that were with him were against him, and those that he fought before were glad to try again at his life. Britta, the bitch that she was, lusted for any form of pain and blood from him, pelting him as she could with her deadly aim. She was a fine huntress, but gods be damned if she wasn't some part insane.

The first warrior was dispatched in nearly an instant. Drekthac was in no mood for games or duel. He was here to live, and he did that by killing before being killed. The blood was still flinging from his sword when a val'kyr dove down to recover the dying man, while Drekthac dove under several crushing blows. He did not want to waste his strength, energy, or rage on anything but killing blows.

His height gave him all the advantage of a mouse, scurrying between blades and even legs. But he was not so cowardly as too only run. Drekthac stopped to cleave off the leg of a warrior too eager and confident in their numbers. As the giant still fell, the other blade ripped open his stomach.

Drekthac found several scores rent into his armor in the passing. The Ymirjar were not basic footmen, and even in this hungry frenzy, they did not behave entirely without sense. Drekthac let his rage build, expelling it only on opportunity, and so five others were struck down fatally.

Several arrows managed to punch through his armor, but Drekthac did not have the opportunity to address Britta or the other huntresses. Only one managed to pierce flesh anyways. Still he fought, maintaining a high ground near the boulder, while using it to tag those who grew too careless at close range.

The better fighters did not make many mistakes, and if they did, they were so guarded that there was always something to prevent Drekthac from pressing an advantage. He contented himself with taking fingers and hands, sometimes impaling a foot or scoring against a leg. He was always in motion, always stepping to get an opportunity against his opponent. When on guard, it was impossible to get around a warrior's shield, but in this mad field, they always pressed the offense, swinging often, and with only a dodge and a counter-attack, Drekthac found his opponents falling in droves despite the odds.

He did not know how many had fallen when an arrow took him through the eye. Drekthac nearly conceded there, stumbling back with outrage, while he could hear the triumphant, "Aha!" of Britta. Wildly, his good eye opened for a flash of motion, and he barely raised a blade to parry a hungering strike.

Skeletal hands broke free of the ground to grasp Drekthac's ankles, and he was reminded of the many death knights among the Ymirjar. He fell to the ground, just as another arrow sailed over his head, and a desperate strike cut off an over-reaching vrykul's leg at the ankle, sending him down as well.

With a desperate cry, Drekthac ripped free the arrows from his armor, then that in his eye – ignoring what might have been pulled out with it, and he thrust a bottle from his waist to under his helmet, drinking swiftly. The potion's effects were immediate – he was healed.

Drekthac would call it the second round then, as he rose with all vengeance and claimed the lives of nearly a dozen in under thirty seconds of furious fighting. By then, there were shouts and calls, claiming caution against the Dragon, and they stopped advancing so recklessly.

Panting with both rage and exertion, Drekthac saw barely half remained of their numbers. His mind was fogged, clouded in the red haze, and suddenly he caught sight of a huntress with her bow fully drawn back. His focus tightened, even catching her arrow when it came. His mind flooded with urges, to see her broken and mangled, to see her face twisted with pain and pleasure at a forceful fucking, to see that laugh wiped off her face from any possible method.

He came for her then, in a storm of steel and blood. Two Ymirjar leapt before him to engage, and they both fell before they could even swing, missing a leg each. Britta threw aside her bow just as Drekthac descended upon her. Her hand axe deflected away the first, then the second strikes, before the third completely overpowered her and sent her pitching back down the sloped land of Ymirheim.

Drekthac had advanced too quickly for the others to be prepared, and he chased after her unopposed. A clawed gauntlet caught the snow to stop her fall, and then Britta rolled aside to escape Drekthac's next strikes. On a knee, she caught one in a parry, only to have the second blade score deep into her furred shoulders. The whole article slacked then as half of its support was lost, revealing the blue skin of her shoulder.

The iron bracer blocked the next strike, while Drekthac lunged forward eagerly. The hand axe scraped along his breastplate, too late to stop him from kneeing her in her unprotected stomach. Britta heaved out a loud breath, then bashed her helmet against his, stunning them both for a few long seconds.

When Drekthac could think again, he saw the others upon them again, and with sweeping strikes, he manged to cut open one's belly while still ripping open Britta's side. She fell back with a howl, laughing even in her defeat, while the val'kyr continued falling down upon the broken.

The high sun broke the clouds near the time the battle ended. Its warm rays touched the area, warming Drekthac through his armor, while he sat finally on a low boulder, with his remaining sword planted in the snow before him. He was clinging to the blade, resting against it, with fingers unyielding in their grip over the hilt. Should another warrior come upon him then, he would be in final defeat.

But there were no other warriors. Around Drekthac was a see of red and black blood, of mangled bodies with white angels beside them whispering their words of magic to bring back wholeness and life. Warriors groaned with pain and shock, if they still lived, while others still stared with eyes no longer filled with life.

Drekthac's iron grey armor had gained a red layer of paint, much of it his own blood, while his helmet had been dented into his head, unable to be easily removed then. His right shoulderplate was dangling by a thread, and elsewhere the shell of his breastplate was like pincushion with its many holes.

But he lived, still gasping breaths through broken ribs and a punctured lung. Blood and swelling closed one eye, but the other glared out over the devastation with uncertainty, as if looking for more of the endless foes. It was, he was unable to accept, over.

"Well, well," an amused voice tinkered with laughter floated against him from above. "Look at the Dragon, the Immortal, still alive after such a clear ploy. Are you so desperate to never find the grave? So proud as to never know defeat? Look at you now, heaving with so much rage, and so much pain, and trembling now with shivers and approaching death, and ready to fight it back as you always do."

Drekthac did not glance at her, could not look up from the field of battle, eye narrowed with fury. The voice went on, unacknowledged.

"It is said that those who stand again, even when defeated, do not find the grave. It has been argued among the val'kyr that defeat is a state that must be accepted, never given against the final will of a combatant. You, young Baelin Drekthac, seem a living testimony to this fact. Will you die now, of your wounds and the cold, or will sheer will fight it back? I have commanded away your precious Maldrid, who might heal you. What will you choose?"

No response. Only choked breathing, and an unrelenting glare. Hilda's smile was wide. "So be it, Drekthac, greatest of all the Ymirjar. Sleep, know only of your victory." Runes danced around her hand, before she closed it into a tight fist, and the spell seized Drekthac from where he sat. Slowly, the warrior slumped against his blade.

XxX

Drekthac woke up to the heavy weight of armor still burdening his body, though his helmet had been removed. The enchantment had been broken from that, but now he could breath without the steel shoved against his nose, and he noticed he breathed easy, without pain.

Finally, he cracked open tired eyes. From the cold, he knew it was not his home he had been taken to. He found himself on a flat of land partially up the mountain of Ymirheim, with his back propped against the rocky wall. Night had nearly fallen. Past his booted feet, he saw two pale beings of white snow watching him, both female. He stared blankly at them for a long moment, before they clicked into his mind. Freydis and Maldrid.

"What happened?" he mumbled over a numb tongue.

His old friend had a tense look over the half of the face he could see. Her lips were drawn tight, until she said, "You should not have won. You should not have defeated one hundred Ymirjar in single battle."

"Well, I was not just going to let them roll over me." The effort of talking strained him, and at the spike of headache, his eyes closed once again, and he relaxed himself back.

Her troubled voice returned, "No, Baelin, you do not understand. You should not have won."

His eye cracked open again, to see her turning away to peer over the ledge into the city. He stared at her pale back and her brilliant, white wings. It took him some time to realize she meant it should not have been possible, and later still that there might be consequences.

"It was a challenge, and I won," he argued weakly at her back.

"It was an execution," she explained without looking.

Maldrid knelt beside Drekthac then, with her angular face pensive, from what he could see. "Are you well?" she asked, concerned.

Drekthac shook his head, pushing himself up to a sit despite his body's complaint. He needed another douse of healing and a week's worth of meals, but that could come later. As his mind sharpened, he took especially note of where Freydis had taken him, outside of the city, away from his brothers and sisters.

"Freydis, what has happened?" he growled, forcing the words past his blasted dead tongue.

He noticed the tightness of her knuckles over her polearm then, planted into the snow before her as she peered down at Ymirheim. "The city is... afraid of you, Drekthac," she replied finally. "They do not believe such a victory can be possible, for good reason. There is rumor of cheating, that you've sold out your soul to nefarious beings. Pride has many of those warriors in agreement with the excuses for their loss. Your welcome has been drawn very thin."

Noticing the offered hand before him, Drekthac gratefully accepted Maldrid's grip as she pulled him back to his feet. His legs refused to work properly, his knees unbending as steel, but he hobbled over to Freydis. "My armor is finer than theirs," he began, fury leaking into his voice. "The enchantment, unprecedented to any of my kind before, and I had to train just to control it. I wear iron braces over each of my joints, so my body does not break under the strain of vrykul combat. My soul fills with the battle-rage of a true warrior, same as them. In that battle, numbers made them confident, always pressing attacks and never properly defending."

"You killed seven defending Ymirjar in a single sweep of your blade," Freydis argued by way of example.

"When I was so deep in the enchantment's rage that nothing mortal could have stopped me," Drekthac agreed. "And the attack nearly ripped my arm off, if not for the braces."

Freydis remained silent, while Maldrid told him from behind, "We know that you fought true, Ymirjar. You do not need to waste breath on us. However, it is the rest of Ymirjar that beats the drums of war and seethes in rage and mistrust."

"What does Hilda say?" Drekthac asked, remembering the vague words she said to him at the end of the fight.

It was Freydis that answered: "She keeps silent, knowing the val'kyr are also torn on which side to decide upon. She will not risk a schism of the Ymirjar."

"Sides," Drekthac repeated, grunting the word. "What sides are there? That I won the fight because I'm a lucky son of a bitch or because I am a demon-possessed champion of Hela?"

"The sides, my liege, are to decide whether or not the Ymirjar exile you from their ranks... or take you as king," Maldrid explained.

It was as if the ground had been taken from beneath Drekthac's feet. After a long moment of gaping, he shouted, "What in hell's fuck is that about? Of all the blighted ideas...!" He stumbled back a few steps, away from the edge of the cliff, and Freydis turned to face him, grim.

With furious motions, Drekthac tore off the loose shoulder and threw it to the snow, then undid the other. His armor was still a red-caked and ruined mess. "Help me take this off. I've had enough of this," he growled.

Both Battle-maidens approached. Their large hands were experienced in the task, undoing human-sized buckles and straps quickly. At the iron braces, Freydis paused her work to turn it over in her palm, and she admitted, "It is easy to underestimate and forget the power of these."

"Can't snap my knee. Can't throw out my shoulder or force my elbow past its limit. At times, it can replace a battle of muscle to one of muscle against iron, and iron will always win," Drekthac told her, nodding. His arms went up as Maldrid finally removed his punctured breastplate.

The handmaiden paused then, one lip peeling up with distaste. It was clear, from the ripped drake-skin vest beneath, the many purple bruises and leaking holes still on him. Her hand fell over his chest, with red runes pouring over them, and when she moved, Drekthac could see flawless, if still stained, skin remained instead. Most of his aches vanished with the healing.

All that remained then were the pants, boots, and metal braces at the knees. Drekthac stopped them there. "Now, take me to my kin. I will not tolerate this foolishness any further."

XxX

In the Hall of Heroes, there was calamity. It was not song and boast that filled the feast hall, but shouting and strife. Val'kyr remained astride with those they personally served, while others circled around a stoic Hilda, who hovered above them all, watching through her blindfolded face.

Drekthac did not have a grand entrance. Even with Maldrid's healing, and despite the braces, his walk was short and stiff. The two val'kyr walking abreast each other just behind him is what truly caught their attention, recognizing those that served the one called the Immortal, and very quickly the entire hall shut up to stare at the human.

Their Common and his Vrykul were both not good enough for clear communication, so Drekthac asked Freydis to translate for him.

He began mildly but loud enough to echo through the hall. "If I look like I went a hundred rounds against a Ymirjar, despite repeated healings, that's because it is true." Above him now, Freydis boomed his words in Vrykul, her accent clear and very, very suiting to her, he felt.

Before any grumbling and shouting could break out, he continued by singling out a warrior. "Skaldr, if I came at you without once raising my shield between us, do you think you could strike me down?"

This warrior did not need Freydis' translation, but still she repeated the question. In Vrykul, Skaldr shouted, _"In a heartbeat!"_

Drethac nodded. "What if I came at you a hundred times?"

"_A hundred times or a thousand, I could slay an undefended warrior from sun up to sun down!"_

Unarmored, stumbling Drekthac pointed at Skaldr. "There is the reason for my victory today. In your overconfidence, one hundred of you came at me thinking numbers made up for defense, that striking first could supersede a raised shield or a raised blade. If I can recall, there were barely a dozen that bothered to fight as warriors, with shield always between you and opponent, stepping aside to score hits."

He waited for Freydis, then shouted, with a gesture to himself, "And hit me they did! Never have I fallen so close to the grave! My armor gives me strength beyond that of my body, gives me skill, speed, and dexterity, and still I lay prone before the gates of Valhal for a long age!" Freydis. "And so I come to, hearing that you bicker among yourselves to exile a warrior who could defeat a series of fools? Exile Skaldr too! Or Jarldan! Or Baldar!" He paused for the translation. "And worse still, I hear word of raising a _king_ over the _Ymirjar!_ The Ymirjar have no king!"

Freydis shouted the words with equal passion, and the men before them nodded. "The Ymirjar need no king! We are men and women of honor, of glory, of _tradition!_" Pause. "Even the King of the Vrykul has no hold over the Ymirjar! For we are the blessed warriors of Valhal, waiting for the day we die in glorious combat!" A shout returned him. "So go back to your meads, back to your feasts, and if you wish to shout above my victory today, let it be envious praise!" He flexed, eliciting a laugh and jeer from them. "Hope you have the fortune of slaying a hundred overconfident fools! And remember, my titles are not just here for show!"

More laughter, and calls of "the Immortal." Drekthac nodded at them, limping towards where he usually sat, where he saw Britta grinning with a twinkle in her blue eyes. He let the hall fall into a low murmur, broken by the occasional shout and laugh, and then the feast halls regained their life and heart once again, though still it buzzed with a new topic of conversation.

Maldrid peeled away from his side without notice, as Drekthac came to his seat. Nearby vrykul had taken to using it as an arm rest, but they quickly moved away as Drekthac first climbed the bench, and then sat on a second bench bolted into the first. Growing tired very quickly of standing like a fool, he had it hammered in on his fourth day.

Once seated, he found an empty horn, and he had barely raised it before Maldrid was there, filling it. Though Drekthac had always been patient in finding himself a servant, Freydis had been right in keeping her. Maldrid proved herself very reliable, pleasant even, and she displayed heart even as a handmaiden. She was a Val'kyr of Ymirheim.

"Britta thinked hooman try sword up ass," a voice shouted across the table at him. "Very disappointed."

"Did I say "sword?"" Drekthac asked, feigning surprise. "I meant something equally obtrusive but would elicit different screams."

The former Hyldnir narrowed her eyes at him, inquisitively, while he grinned and raised his horn for a drink. He could admit to satisfaction at ruffling Britta by using Common she didn't understand. She was a proud woman, but her hubris would be her downfall.

"Hooman can take yer "eleeceet" and stick up own ass!" Britta declared, harrumphing. "At least Britta no fall dead asleep after victory!"

Drekthac took to Vrykul, as he gathered his plate. _"Sorry, can no hear over one hundred dead Ymirjar."_

Britta laughed, as did the others beside him, just as Drekthac felt a warning touch from Freydis. He turned his head to see the approach of a particular val'kyr. He first sighed, then straddled his bench with his plate on his lap, waiting for the words of Hilda.

Hilda's came in lofty bobs through the air, touching here and there to random vrykul, but her destination was clear and very linear. She paused finally at the span before Drekthac and Freydis' seats and touched the ground with her sandals, smiling in her sly way at him.

"_You sure you wish to speak to this short one, Lady of the Spear?"_ Britta asked, her words clear and smooth in her own tongue. Drekthac, as always, tried to take note of the confusing grammar and sentence structure of the vrykul tongue, though it was far easier to hear than to speak. _"His victory bloats his head like the stomachs of goats."_

"_For such good reason, honored Ymirjar," _Hilda returned, bemused, before saying just as easily and sultry in Common, "Well met, Drekthac the Immortal."

"Well met," Drekthac returned, taking another bite into his food. There was no chance he'd delay eating further after the many healings and struggles of the day.

"My words to you now are quite short. I wish to warn you that not every temper has been smoothed here, by your passionate speech. Also, I wish to tell you that you have far exceeded my expectations, and have well surprised me, as the Ymirjar do."

Drekthac was glad that he had long realized bravado was not how he dealt with this one. "Your words honor me, Silvertongue. I will keep your warning heeded."

From the wide, mischievous smile that she assumed, Drekthac came to realize that her words were not at all intended to be short. Hilda reached forward to take the iron plate from his lap, and then she turned – with white wings barely passing over his head – to take its place. She purred, "You are indeed a curious one, Dragon. Proud and kind, dangerous yet deliberate. The slayer of Thane Byjron." His food was returned to the table.

Drekthac stared at the sudden lapful of scandalously dressed val'kyr, with eyebrows raised high as the nearby vrykuls' eyes were wide. Hilda scooted herself further in place, seated on his groin, and turned her blindfolded attention to his face. "Now, I don't mean to make your Freydis jealous, but I did want to add that..."

Though her mouth stopped moving there, the sentence continued in her same voice as if it hadn't. _...you have my approval for your place of leadership among the Ymirjar. Though tradition allows your clan no King, much as there is no Queen of the Val'kyr, they will come to see you as many do myself._ The mouth moved again, "Well, it seems I lost my thought. But so it was worth your time..." She kissed two fingers and pressed them to Drekthac's forehead, then touched the floor again with her feet.

Drekthac had no reply to that, wondering at the voice, as she turned and beamed brilliantly at him. Her voice, without mouth, returned: _Do not be shy in meeting me, little Baelin. The times are dark, and our peoples without direction. We must soon discuss the future of the Ymirjar. Call upon my name in the Val'kyr Halls, and I will allow you tour of my chambers._ She took to the air, quickly falling into her usual robust and hearty nature.

"Baelin, is there still thought between your ears or only steam?" Freydis asked beside him, interrupting Drekthac's bewildered thoughts. He gave a slow, considering nod as he turned back to the feast. His old friend had a wry smile. "That is good. We cannot have you so undone from one kiss, even from Hilda herself."

He noticed the wide-eyed stares from everyone around him, including Britta, and assumed only he had heard the voice of Hilda apart from her spoken words. They must have only seen and heard the rest, the... ruse. Lips drawing thin, he turned to give one last look to Hilda, before returning to his feast. Curious indeed.

XxX

Drekthac was unconvinced of being taken as any leader, at least until the next day. He worked with the blacksmith to repair his armor, and the man had a strange formality to his addressing of Drekthac. Certainly, the blacksmith had resigned from the daily battlegrounds, but he was still Ymirjar and still better at swords than most of those that came to him for repairs or new weapons.

Following that, two brothers in dispute asked for Drekthac's opinion on the matter, and they accepted his answer without further challenge. Then a sister, whom he didn't even know the name of, left a raunchy suggestion in passing. It was different, certainly, but the real change Drekthac noticed when he entered the battleground at southern Ymirheim.

One hundred Ymirjar looked to him, at the start. The previous day made him wary, but now it was without any hostility. One asked him for his plan of attack. What was there to do against a Ymirjar army but flank? He proposed it, and they asked him where each should go. Fighting his growing confusion, Drekthac kept it simple, assigning those skilled in healing with each group, placing himself as a leading figure in the main force, and off they went.

Through their usual tenacity, Drekthac's team had won, though it was close as every game was. They celebrated their lunch and sang of their glory and included Drekthac's name, championing the Immortal. Hilda showed herself that far down the city, watching from the shadows, and he saw her attention fixed on him during their feast.

Following the feast, the imaginary lines of the teams dissolved, and the vrykul asked Drekthac his thoughts on the proposed "King of Northrend" they heard rumor about, toting around the land. Some human paladin, bold as the gods to throw out that title. Drekthac had snorted, not even recognizing the family name "Eyenhart" of the so called "King." He took to reminding them that the Ymirjar were an autonomous people, whom governed themselves, and they submitted to no king. The answer suited them.

Following, Drekthac declined from the evening games, instead proceeding north and west to the Val'kyr Halls. Before entering, he turned north and hiking the outer rim of the city, to stand on the bluffs that overlooked Icecrown. A scout greeted him, one of the Ymirjar that preferred the solitude of the outdoors, and served as a defender of the city. Drekthac nodded back, before looking to the glacier.

The late light painted the land in oranges and pinks, with the green of the Ghost Light above flickering over it all. There were no mists now, leaving his view clear. He inhaled a deep breath, nodding once at the confirmation, and took a seat beside the scout.

The hunter, one of the old Ymirjar converted to death knight by the Lich King, did not speak Common. Taking the one skull that hung from his leg, Drekthac held it up for comparison, mentioning, _"Dark time."_ The hunter nodded. A longbow was laid over his lap, the wood nearly ten feet in length.

Drekthac had studied the head of the creature he slew on his path to Ymirheim. Something was wrong with its skin, he concluded in the end, for even when he held it clear before his eyes, he saw it as if recently bashed in the head and dazed, without detail. So he had boiled away the skin, peeled it away and cleaned the skull, to give it shape. Three eye sockets, a sunken span with three hoses for the nose, and a maw with two separate jaw bones on each side. Bizarre, foreign, alien. So it went, however.

Before him, over the lands of Icecrown, black shapes mulled about. Some were in bands, some alone, and some stood as tall as mammoths. In the west, before the gates just outside the citadel, battle raged between the white bones of a Scourge army and these darklings, with no end or victory in sight.

It was a changed world out there, no matter how comforting the traditions of Ymirheim were. The scouts, who watched this daily, remained disillusioned.

The scout pointed to the mountains north of Jotunheim, where he knew the Shadow Vault to be. The sun glinted off metal there, and he could see several massive banners mounted on the hills flanking the pathway. The King of Northrend dwelt there. Recognizing that, he nodded to the hunter.

They sat together in silence for a time, watching the advance of the darklings. Some traveled towards the Shadow Vault, others reinforced the battle outside Icecrown Citadel's gates, and others still were intercepted by the war parties of Jotunheim. His eyes were not trained to make out details beyond dots meeting dots, but he understood the meanings well.

Finally, as the sun touched the tops of the western mountains, Drekthac stood to his feet. He held out his hand, saying, _"Brother."_

The hunter clasped it, nodding back and looking with eyes as cold as death. _"Brother."_

The hulking doors of the Val'kyr Halls were shoved open, and Drekthac pushed them wide enough to step through unhindered. More vrykul were present than the last time he was in here. Nearly two dozen were broken into smaller groups, discussing matters with the val'kyr. None looked his way until Drekthac cupped his hands before his mouth and shouted, "Hilda! Here the call of the Ymirjar and come!"

Like last time, he gained every bit of wide-eyed intrigue, but now for a different reason. He was not just a human calling the name of a val'kyr on his first day. No, now he was someone bold enough to call upon she whispered as queen. The audacity of Drekthac knew no bounds.

"Come along then, Ymirjar. Don't keep me waiting,"was the smokey reply, rising from deep within the mountain of Ymirheim that the Halls were built into.

Freydis' acceptance to Drekthac's demand for her name held not a candle to the surprise of Hilda inviting someone to her chambers. One val'kyr even fell from the air, forgetting to keep afloat. Drekthac, however, remained only disgruntled. His hands shoved into the pockets of his cloak and he made his way forward, guessing at where Hilda might reside.

The Val'kyr Halls were not designed so differently from any other vrykul building, likely because the Val'kyr had always been vrykul rather than winged angelic beings. It was hard cut stone, first as brick walls, then later as just smoothed mountain wall. As he had originally seen, at evenly spaced segments, there were alcoves housing weapon racks, podiums carrying relics, and other artifacts. Then, at some point, the alcoves became long corridors, disappearing into darkness with only flecks of orange torchlight farther on.

Drekthac continued down the main Hall, ignoring the branches. At a hundred yards in, he noticed a brightly lit corridor to his right. There was a chamber, unbarred from any door, that was bright with color, under a white light that couldn't have been torch. He could see within it grass, trees, and everything he might expect from a meadow in Grizzly Hills. At first he paused, considering a look, especially as he saw several val'kyr hovering about within, in discussion, but he shook his head and focused.

Deeper and deeper, until he was sure he had passed nearly five hundred yards into the mountain. That was when he saw the end of the main hall, finding an embellished double-door that stood at least fifteen feet tall and eight wide. The wood had been carved with finely detailed impressions and painted to present a grand scene of battle, of vrykul and dwarven and giant armies banded together against a foe of darkness, many bound and wrapped in strangling tentacles.

It was a depiction of the ordering of Azeroth, if his history was right.

Drekthac opened the doors. Inside, he found a dimly lit chamber that was clearly the master quarters of the entire complex. From the burning incense that filled the air with a musky, pleasant scent, and the drapes of deep crimsons and scarlet, it was exactly as he might expect of Hilda. Remembering manners, he remained behind the threshold and knocked on the wood of the open door.

"Enter," her voice permitted, amused. Drekthac crossed over, closing the wood door behind him.

When she heard, Freydis assumed – as those back inside the hall did – that Hilda had invited him to her chambers for a night of pleasure. Drekthac didn't agree, though he wasn't sure what to think of this mysterious val'kyr. Servant she may be, but a ruling and manipulative hand she had over the entire people. She served no will but her own, and her psychic words to him confirmed the fact.

To the left, a vrykul-sized four poster bed fit for a queen covered more ground than Drekthac's own home did. A thin veil of white gave an opaque view of the darker covers, and deeper red curtains were held to the posts, able to shield it entirely if its occupants wished. From the brightly colored body within, Drekthac knew Hilda to be seated upon the edge of her bed, but his attention turned to the racks of weapons mounted above the bed.

Finely carved axes, swords, shields, lances – they made a pattern despite each unique shape. Those were not the weapons of warriors – they were the arms of kings, of thanes and chiefs, of gods and immortals. Beneath each weapon was a gold plague with carved runes in the Vrykul language. Named weapons, he noted.

Hilda stood then, drawing his attention back to her, and she parted the veil to present herself to him – and present she did! Unlike her usual clothing meant to show as much skin as she could excuse as decent, she wore now an actual dress that appeared of starlight. It was pale as the moon, radiant as her skin, and sheer enough to betray every curve and detail of all ten feet of Hilda.

And she had much to be proud of displaying, Drekthac noted very quickly. However, worried thoughts did not allow him the distraction. Raising an eyebrow, he only remarked, "A dress?"

A smile appeared to be a constant expression for Hilda, always amused by something no one else saw but her, but at least it changed to fit her mood. "Always backless for our wings, which makes them unsuitable for Northrend climate, but I enjoy them as I can. I see you come dressed for war."

Drekthac still wore his armor, with even his helmet tied beside the skull at his waist. He shrugged. "Can I be blamed?"

A throaty laugh returned his question. "Ohoho, dear Baelin, if I wanted you hurt, I'm not sure it would help."

"Many have perished thinking the same."

"And perhaps one day, we shall see." Her unrelenting smile regarded his steady gaze, until she winked and added, "Though my intentions now are far from harm."

"And far from a tumble too. You asked me to come, and so I have. What is it you wish from me?"

Even now, Hilda kept her blindfold in place, seeing with the sight of a spirit. It kept her emotions, her thoughts, her true intentions hidden from him. Drekthac felt that was her armor, and the tantalizing peak at her body, her sword.

She nodded, sobering up. "Ah yes, business first. The Ymirjar. You realize now my words are true, that your brothers and sisters turn to you for guidance and leadership, don't you?" Though he was loath to do it, Drekthac gave her a curt nod. "Then you must understand that the two of us are the shapers of the Ymirjar, the controlling hands, the deciders of fate. And in the coming days, we must not be idle."

Drekthac stared at her with an expression of stone. Sometime in their banter, the sleeve of her dress had fallen over a pale shoulder, giving him direct view of her skin, and reminding him of the ease in which that dress could come off. And as those thoughts turned over in his head, of the sultry desire Hilda brewed from her presence, the temptation of her, he listened to her words of strings and the hands of puppeteers.

His response to her was, "And I will not fall into your grip nor into your plans for the Ymirjar."

Thin, refined eyebrows rose, and the edges of her lips twitched in the image of a smile. "Oh? Whatever do you mean?"

"Don't be coy with me," he snorted. With a glance, he found a chair and jumped into place, letting his helmet and armor bang and crash. He liked the crude image as he regarded her again. "Your a clever woman with a tongue of silver. The only Lich King-raised val'kyr to be a handmaiden, and you garner all the respect of a true queen among the populous. You are the desire, the throb, of every male here, and that is your power over them. I'm letting you know now that it won't be so for me:

"All that matters is the traditions of the Ymirjar. We are autonomous. If they want me to decide, then I will decide how the Ymirhar should, not how Hilda the Val'kyr would want us to. No amount of sex or honeyed words will sway me, so consider very carefully how you word your proposals to the Ymirjar, val'kyr."

As he spoke, her smile grew wider and wider, until she clapped at his finish, seeming absolutely delighted. With girlish enthusiasm, Hilda darted between the veils of her bed and jounced onto the edge again. "Oh, Baelin, you are such a marvelous addition to the clan! So bold, so confident. It will be such a shame to see you overcome. Now, if you are quite finished, I'd like to recall your attention to the darkling threat outside our walls."

Drekthac had half a mind to demand she not call him that, but he'd pushed enough so far. The veils remained aside now, allowing him unhindered access to the view of her. He gestured her to continue.

"As you know, nearly all of the Ymirjar have returned to Ymirheim now, at the change of the world. Dark tidings have risen, and I trust you recognize that our preservation – and their destruction – is of our mutual interests." It was a teasing jab, but Drekthac gave no rise to it. "So we have several choices. We can war and march out against this threat, we can meet with this so called King of Northrend to hear his stand against them, we can conquer the King and march his armies as conscripts, we can rally the armies of the vrykul... I could continue, but you get the point. There are smart choices, and there are Ymirjar choices. You understand, yes?"

Drekthac did. The Ymirjar were a proud people. They would accept no allegiance, not even that of conscripts, in a glorious battle against some foe that might grant them true deaths. But also, these darklings were of no threat to the Ymirjar, and many would refuse to war at all, preferring the confines of their city – much like many of those during the War of the Lich King.

His hand urged her on again, remaining in contemplation. She said, "Take for example, our entire army of Ymirjar march out against the darklings. We very well might crush them in one day. Even if this foe was impossibly stronger, and more numerous – fighting a dark god, for example – if we kept the val'kyr handmaidens on the warfront, we would be as unending and unstoppable as the Scourge in their heigh-"

"No," Drekthac cut in immediately. Fuck him, she was entirely right, but her plan was so wrong. Her face became stone in its stare."The Ymirjar crave death, we wait impatiently for it. We desire the halls of Valhal. Out there, if we have found a foe that can slay us in worthy combat, then we deserve our final deaths. We welcome it! We will not have ourselves raised again and again, to fight on in a form of mortal immortality."

"Smart, versus Ymirjar," she agreed, but her words came like eating a bad apple.

But there was wrongness to her proposal. Drekthac's eyes narrowed. "Why would you propose such a thing, val'kyr? You know our people, you serve us. What do you know of this foe that would have you _dare_ to suggest such a thing?"

"Oh, don't be a fool, human." Her voice came as a tease, but its tone was foreign, no longer sounding like Hilda. "You talk like a vrykul, but you're a try hard. The suicidal-pride conflict is an impossibility, and an illusion conjured by the Ymirjar. Take it away, and all that's left of Ymirheim is a city of narcissistic children drinking and fucking without restraint, waiting to die so they can drink and fuck some more, ignoring the immense _potency_ of their combat capabilities. So powerful, yet so _neutered_ by choice, and you, human, can recognize this, as your people would well condone this culture."

Drekthac kept his mouth shut firmly, but his nostrils flared. At the conclusion of her words, he slowly stood to his feet and growled, "Who... the fuck are you? You are no vrykul." At the alien stare from her, he felt a sense of panic and unease, and his armor felt thin. He turned towards the door, planning on making his leave. He needed to speak to someone about this.

Before him, the locks of the door turned at magical prompting, and the massive crossbeam slammed down far beyond human reach. "Sit, human, and continue speaking," was the cold demand.

Drekthac knew he could probably break his way out. Probably, because she could as easily weave spells to reinforce the door, and the attempt of pushing through left him vulnerable to any attack from her. For now, he left the matter alone, but a single sword was drawn as he faced the rune mistress again.

He did not sit, but he walked to the edge of the veils around her bed, regarding her at a distance of barely five yards. With her sitting, his eyes were level with her knees, and he could make out through the thin fabric the darker suggestion between. Thoughts of lust did not touch his mind then, and his eyes turned upwards to meet her blindfolded ones.

"In Ymirheim," she started again, tone bouncing back to the usual playful one, "there are the daily battlegrounds, where the death-seeking Ymirjar are always brought back. There are also the battle-pits, fought in duels, to allow one warrior the grace of true death. It can be the same in war. We can fight to die, and we can fight to live. Even the Ymirjar. But the Ymirjar are children, and they will only seek death in wars against those not also Ymirjar."

Drekthac noticed the way she excluded him from the clan.

She continued, "With your leadership, and my approval, the Ymirjar would march to war like a game of battlegrounds. Whomever scores the most numerous kills of darklings is the victor. Do you understand, human, the ease in which this force could consume this threat?"

"I'm only going to ask this once more... Who the _fuck_ are you?" Drekthac replied gruffly. His eyes were narrowed.

Hilda's lips quirked. "I am whoever I want to be. A better question is who are _you,_ human, who tries so hard to fit with vrykul?"

"I am Ymirjar. I am a narcissistic child who drinks and fucks without restraint. I am a potent force who chose to neuter myself."

His cheek made her smile twitch. "Then prove it, human. Would fucking me, right here and right now, prove your manhood? Or would it prove your shallowness? Would cleaving me in half make you right? Shall I serve you some wine, to befuddle your mind, and sit back in awe at your mighty nature?"

"Remove your blindfold, val'kyr," Drekthac demanded.

For a brief moment, her brow began to furrow, drawing down, until she caught herself and schooled her expression. Her hands came to her shoulders, and she slowly slipped the sleeves of the dress off. It fell to her impressive chest, and she peeled it away to reveal her breasts and torso down to her hips.

Topless, she said in a fey tone, "I will reveal every bit of my body to you, Ymirjar, but you will never witness my eyes. You do not possess enough authority."

Drekthac crossed the veiled line, approaching her with his sword, and his expression was hard. With his left hand, he grasped the bottom hem of her dress and pulled. She quickly lifted herself to let him pull the entire article away without it tearing. Like that, Hilda was entirely nude before him. And gods was she beautiful beyond belief, in every detail.

But he did not resort to looking, to memorizing or appreciating her shape. He threw aside her dress, then aimed his sword directly at her smooth stomach. Looking into her blindfold again, he muttered quietly, "You fucking changeling. I have no patience for your games."

"But you will bear them," she replied simply, at ease under his attention. "So I'm going to ask again, human. Will you continue playing the fool, or will you help me carve a future for the races of the realm? Stop pretending to be vrykul, stop trying to show yourself as larger than human, and do what you know to be right."

She inched closer to him. The sword touched her soft belly, and she slowly, but with firm hand, pushed the blade away from her. Once it was clear of her body, Drekthac let the heavy end touch the rug-covered floor with a muffled thunk. He kept his thoughts from his face, and though his eyes were upon her face, his were glazed with inward attention. Hilda seized advantage of the opportunity to rise from the bed, not standing to her full height but bending down to him.

Drekthac's eyes followed her with returned alertness. Ten feet of naked, white-skinned giantess was presented to him, kneeling now in an open, intimate way. Her white feathered wings stretched back to their full width. With a large hand engulfing his armored shoulder, she repeated in an earnest, lascivious tone, "Will you think as a rational human, Baelin?"

His eyes dropped from the blindfold. He traced along the length of slender neck to her smooth chest and her breasts squeezed together by the position. Down still to her flat stomach, the cinch at her waist before her seductive hips, to the brazenly displayed womanhood presented by the wide stance of her strong legs, finely maintained to a dark coat over her vulva that contrasted her platinum hair. She wore no sandals now, leaving her calves and ankles pleasantly bare for his eyes.

Gods, in life, this was a woman kings marched wars over, to have in their beds. This was a woman that would seize control then of that kingdom, through wicked manipulations and inescapable beauty. The hand behind the scenes, the voice behind the ruler's mouth. Would he fall into the dreadful grasp?

"No," he told her, shaking his head and stepping out of her firm hold. He meant it to his own thought and to her question. His spine stiffened, and his voice steeled. "No. I am human, but I am also Ymirjar. The two are not exclusive." His attention had to turn away from her, sword still in hand, to look into the rest of the lavish room.

The dark furnishings, and scarlet themes, and sex colors, and sex scents. This was Hilda's throne room. This was the spider's web.

_What is her game here?_ he had to ask himself. He hated with great fury subtleties, deceptions, and finely-woven traps. He usually returned them with vicious, damaging physical force meant to ruin all and teach a lasting lesson.

He kept with bluntness, with honesty – a warrior's sharpest weapon against deceptions and manipulations. He would not play her game.

She was waiting for him, during his short reflections. He spoke. "I enjoy drinking, you silver-tongued bitch, and I crave a good fuck like every man ought. Is that what I _want_ though? Never. What I want is to fight. I want to war, to kill, to immerse myself in fury, and blood, and passion, and lust so great that sex pales in comparison. I don't want to slaughter, and I don't want to butcher the weak and innocent. I want the glory of victory when the odds were slim, to cut down opponents so large that wearing their belt makes me that much larger. And one day, with all the glory and honor I could wrack up in my life, I want to clash with a foe too large for me to topple. I want him to run me through and take my head, and I want to die with my honor, to be burned on the funeral pyre and find welcome in the arms of my brother and sister warriors beyond, in Valhal."

His sword felt oddly heavy as he spoke, and he dropped it to the rug. He pulled out the second and left it on the floor. "Human, vrykul... That doesn't _matter._ That is what I want. I want to feel the same warm brotherhood I did fighting in the Blackrock War all those years ago, with a back against mine that I can trust in the heat of what I would call _life._ These thoughts were unwelcome by my kin, those who know of that genocide only by report and written numbers, and it wasn't until the vrykul that I saw the same once again. Settle down? What good is a simple farm and a plain wife!"

A spike of anger had him kick one of his swords. The heavy metal went crashing from the rug into a narrow, empty table, and it collapsed at once. His hand came to his chest, unable to feel the necklace but closing his eyes in memory for a sharp moment. They opened again still aflame.

"Ymirheim is paradise, you faceless whore. Here, I have found my brothers and sisters. Here, I can war, and here I can celebrate it. Here, I can find a back to take heart in, and a sword arm to fight beside, instead of against. Still! here we are champions, true warriors unhindered by early bravado and weakness. The feasting, the fucking, the scores of pretty servants, Hilda, those are rewards for us whom the world cannot oppose. We are those ready for Valhal but cannot seem to find death, to find honest challenge apart from each other. We could conquer the world should we choose, could sack every kingdom – even without val'kyr support – but we do not, for such is mortal concerns, and such is as low as the champions of Valhal returning to the living plane to conquer the worlds."

He appreciated her silence, letting him speak unopposed, but his thoughts were spreading too thin and wild in his passion, and he lost his place. In the growing stillness, she asked in a carefully reserved voice, "And the darklings?"

"Let the world prove its own strength, its own resilience!" he announced, glad for the topic. He glance sideways at her, but the nakedness proved more tempting than her blank face. "They will rise and quell any threat that opposes their place here. The Burning Legion, the Scourge, what does it matter? We are not the defenders of the realm, they are. We are not needed to fight _their_ wars, lest we face a foe as vast and endless as that which details this door!" He kicked the locked door, rattling it in its hinges.

He added, quieter, with darkening thoughts, "Because that is a foe all of Azeroth must rise against, and prove ourselves titans not men..." Louder, he looked to her again and approached. "But the Outsiders, the Usurpers, the Makers – they chained and diminished those baleful beings that remain here, and the mortals of the world can kill them as they come, should another wake in the next decade or century or millennia. Until then, there is nothing but _ambition_ and _power-whoring_ to send the Ymirheim into the world's wars, aye like the Lich King!"

Hilda held his gaze once he stopped before her, only a few feet apart now, and their faces much closer. She showed stone, and he showed fire, both as unwavering as the elements themselves. Then, the white giantess cracked the stone, splitting it with a stretching of lips, and she threw herself back against the edge of the bed with a hand over her flawless stomach.

"Bah-hahahah!" she roared, rich with genuine and hearty laughter, not mocking and not high-held, not reserved and not deliberate. One large hand slapped her naked thigh, nearly guffawing if she hadn't been Hilda. Drekthac's eyebrows drew down, though he contented himself to watching the shaking effects of her laughter pass over her body, especially the breasts thrust forward by her arched back.

"Oh-!" she tried to speak, overcome still by her mirth. "Oh, B-Baelin!" In what must have been a very whimsical and impulsive action for her, Hilda reached up and yanked away her blindfold. Her eyelids blinked open to reveal two orbs of white glass, pristine in uniform color, and they sparkled brightly in her impish grin.

Certainly, she was no changeling then, but the thought was interrupted as Hilda abruptly captured Drekthac in a long arm, and she jumped with him backwards onto her boundless bed. He found himself mashed between her monstrous, well-shaped bosom, his knee somewhere even more suggestive, but he remained faced with her own uncovered – her naked – face.

Gods help him, this woman was as insane as Britta was.

"Baelin," she started again, whispering with all the husk and smoke she could muster. "You are so very precious. Human, I care naught, for you are the very personification of everything vrkyul culture is meant to be, and everything that a Ymirjar should be. You have passed my test, and I deem you worthy of anything I can supply, as well as my full support."

"Test!" he shouted, struggling to break free of her grasp. "Of all the fucking, conniving-!"

"Lay with me," she requested lustfully. He stared at her eyes, baffled, as her hands set upon his armor all at once. He felt them fumbling with his buckles and knots. "Lay with me, Baelin, and let me feel your passion. Let me show you the service I have denied everyone else."

Before he could even answer, the hands he thought were struggling finished their task. Like the touch of spiders, they traced his arms, legs, shoulders, waist, and chest – swiftly – and then all at once his suit fell apart. Drekthac snorted at that, not showing his surprise.

As he threw his breast plate over his head, to crash into his shoulderguard elsewhere, he mentioned, "I heard you didn't deny Gjonner the Merciless."

Under him, Hilda shook with a new laugh. "Oh, you would hear that. He demanded it, and he found the time before my service too... unbearable to chance his demands in here. I presumed he did not broadcast he ran away before even getting my thong off." Her hand took up his and set upon the place in question, let him explore. "Not like you."

For a moment, he started to drag it downward over the mound, but then he stopped himself before he could be carried away. "Wait..." There was a sense of danger to this, to Hilda, and he still felt too confused at her switch from accusing to playful to know what her intent was.

He thought of Freydis, who would be proud to see her man accomplish bedding Hilda. She trusted Hilda, for whatever reason, though she wasn't the one to constantly face her games or "tests." However, thoughts of Freydis quickly turned to thoughts of Freydis in pleasure, in the feel of her, of touching her skin and being inside, to hear her gasp and scream... He entertained the thoughts, while losing interest in the desire of the one before him. If he was to bed a val'kyr right then, he would rather it be Freydis. Let him be known as the man who turned Hilda down.

In the present, Hilda demonstrated her idea of waiting by removing his linen underarmor. His necklace fell forward at that, to dangle in the valley of her bosom. He gave no thought to it, instead pushing himself off her, resolute.

Hilda noticed the change, and her pretty face turned in piqued curiosity. As he began to gather up his armor and clothes, she acknowledged, "You love your Freydis, don't you?"

A shiver passed his spine. Had she seen inside his mind, with whatever psychic ability she had? He grabbed his bracer forcefully at the suggestion, but he answered in his gruffest voice, "No such thing as love." The word was a trick, an illusion.

"Oho?" Freydis remarked, and her new excitement was obvious as she sat up. "Now that is a very curious thing to say, coming from a man who carries a ring around his neck as memento. In human cultures, is that not the band of matrimony, to be placed on the finger of a bride?"

He paused at the cutting observation, closing a scarred and ruined hand around the gold object in question. He took a moment to gather himself, then released it to quickly grab the last of his things. He could not armor himself here. He would leave now.

The thrice-damned woman had an intellect too keen for him to withstand. She continued, "The simple farm and plain wife is an illusion, isn't it? Just like love? Because you watched it dispel right before your eyes."

Crack! ...thud-thud.

Drekthac made no sound, but in a violent fit, he threw his left bracer into one of the bed's four posts, and the aged wood cracked through, causing the hanging curtains to sag at that end. For a long moment, they were both completely still, until he told her flatly, "Stop there."

His muscles remained coiled too tightly with tension, and he felt his back aching until he managed to relax himself. He reached for the belt, his final piece, and a large hand touched his back. Drekthac spun in place, dropping everything to seize the wrist and pull it aside, enraged.

Hilda made no complaint at the odd angle he left her arm. Her expression was gentle, her dead eyes heavy on him. "No small one chose to stay in Northrend without an inescapable cause. You fled here, to hide from your human world."

"Shut the fuck up," he growled, pulling harder on her wrist.

Her eyes shined with challenge. "Make me."

With one foot planted on the bed, Drekthac lunged forward, dragging her wrist up to her head so his right elbow could come to her throat, and he took her down as he might an opponent in the Underhalls. She dropped amiably, fighting none, and when he had her pinned, knee into where the solar plexus would be, she only stared up at him patiently.

No resistance. Just brutality. Drekthac breathed out, disgusted, and released her to turn back to this things. The instant his hand left her wrist, his mind blanked with sudden pain as he was thrown to her other side. Pain pounded in the left side of his jaw, and he looked up with furious eyes to see Hilda's fist still in place where she had clocked him.

He tried to move again, but the wily val'kyr darted up and grabbed his torso in a fist, then threw him over her head way beyond, to the pillow-end of the bed. Drekthac felt torn between fury and apathy. He let her approach, swooping into the air in a long hop with her wings, and she landed before him on her knees, still glorious in her nudity. She had all the look of a warrior to her then, and he saw the Hyldnir roots shining. He almost expected a long spear in her right fist, forearm thick with powerful muscle and a long vein bulging down its length.

"Where is the Ymirjar now?" she demanded. Her voice was strange – almost its usual playful, amused tone, but there was a hardness to it. "Are you too weak to advance past a worldly loss? How many years has it been, and you still bleed? _Women_ are the folk that bleed for days at no wound. Are you a woman?"

Narrowed eyes were the only signs of arousal to her words. She leaned forward, breasts hanging, with her fists tightly balled before her. She demanded, "Overcome me."

In what way, Drekthac wanted to ask. He had pinned her, and she played dead fish. He had left her, and she played vengeful queen-bitch. Overcome her will? Break her? That was not, and would never be, Drekthac's way. Through his raging thoughts, he tried to collect his wits, to consider what he knew of Hilda and her tests and manipulative motives. She was playing him, always playing him, searching for some reaction.

With soundless vibrations that resonated through his naked torso, large, intricate runes rang into existence around that spear-arm. Drekthac did not wait to see them come. He growled and lunged at her, intent only upon violence. Hilda raised a flat palm his way, but his attempt to bash it aside was utterly halted by an unyielding force about her hand then, and his chest crashed against it instead. Their was no waiting as she pushed back and slammed him into the bed in a cushioned impact.

"Weak," she taunted.

But the warrior-rage had begun building since the first confrontation. Without the enchant of his armor, Drekthac knew it would not strengthen his whole body; it could only be channeled, used, in blows of his choosing. It was what separated warriors from footmen. It was what had spell-casters, who dominated scores of foes with mere words, flee in terror at the sight of a true warrior.

The runes, which had been expelled in the shield, reappeared around Hilda's left arm. Now, the spear-hand gained icy blue ones, spiraling in a slow circle around it, and he knew of an arming like sword and shield, offense and defense. How far dare he go, in this scuffle on the bed of a naked maiden? Would he give himself entirely to the rage and bloodlust?

He needed steel in his hands.

A rage-empowered fist broke through her rune shield in their next confrontation, and he dove below her lancing blue fist. Jouncing off the soft bed, Drekthac found his feet again and lunged towards the scattered parts of his armor. He had barely found his remaining bracer when an invisible force grabbed him around his torso and flung him back to where Hilda waited.

He did not have any particular grace at turning himself in the air to address her there. He landed in a heap amongst the pillows, but the bracer was in a clenched fist, and his eyes burned with fury. He wondered at the rune mistress and her manner of battle, what spells she would use here, and also what she would not use, that could end the fight promptly without a means of deflecting it.

A stir of air told him his pants were missing, sometime between flight and fall. Evening the playing field, or something else? He paid no mind, instead scrambling back into a useable stance as she crawled closer, predatory in every foot of her bearing.

With steel, Drekthac could attack. It was no mace or club, but it gave him strength and resolution, it clothed him as well as her blindfold had, and he used it to slam aside her fists and block her small spells, until he had penetrated the range of her arms and leapt upon her giantess body. She accepted him with the tight grip of an arm, and they turned to fall back into the pillows.

Drekthac vented his rage against her gorgeous jaw then with the bracer. He barely managed two strikes before her free hand closed on his face and squeezed as she lifted him off her. His next strike missed her wrist, but then he made it and fell back to the bed, released. The cause of his rage, the memories, had been lost in the battle, and he gladly leapt back on the nude Hilda to continue damage.

Her arms came to him, but he grabbed them and thrust them aside, pinning her again, and at the first hint of struggle he kneed her soft stomach brutally. As she still keeled from it, he moved her arms above her head then, barely holding both in one hand in a painful pin, and he dropped his free right hand, about to strike her again. With his rage, he could likely reshape her pretty face a bit, one blow at a time.

But in the hanging moment, with their eyes staring into each other with all the intimacy and emotion that two opponents felt in combat, he began to hesitate again. The reason for this scuffle came to him in a single thought-image, of a young blond girl from Stormwind, smiling so brightly despite her patched linen shift and cheap dress.

A painful squeezing sensation assaulted his chest, and his eyes flashed at the thought of a new spell from Hilda. He hadn't even noticed she had stopped casting. But there were no exotic arcane colors added, only a renewed physical resistance when he fell distracted.

His left hand forced her wrists even tighter together, unyielding as reinforced steel, but instead of strike her, his right only seized her chin and forced it up ward, exposing her slender throat, then turning it side to side in study of her face. Her beauty was simply enchanting.

Overcome her, she had asked. Here she was, helpless in his hands. He'd remove her ability to speak with an elbow at the first hint of a rune. His hand lowered to her left breast, heaving with her panting breath. At the touch, her white eyes flashed, but no emotion lingered for him to guess her thoughts.

In a fit of renewed violence, he forced her arms aside, and leaving one to be pinned under their combined bodies, he turned her over and wrenched the other back in painful grip, below her wings, so he could lower himself over her. Her powerful legs were pried apart by his, and his free hand, reached under to touch her. She had grown aroused in their dispute. As he played with her, he was soon to follow.

Drekthac hate-fucked Hilda then. He did not know how else to describe himself as he yanked her wrist harder when lining up to penetrate her, or when he physically lifted and slammed her against the bed at an early struggle. The lust had come from the bloodlust still inside him, from the intimacy of their struggle. In the midst of it, her wrists had gained freedom, but Hilda showed no opposition to him, even turning over and drawing him closer, reciprocating with all the savage ferocity and passion of the vrykul.

And why wouldn't she, for this had been her plan all along.

At one point, she had grabbed his necklace in a fist and ripped it from him. Drekthac paused, shocked at the sensation and meaning of the snap, and he watched as she hurled it away from them. He looked to follow its path, pulling back to retrieve it, but her large hands stopped him. She turned his chin her way, digging her fingers into his beard, and she guided him back into her with a deliberate look. Hate and lust returned in a firestorm, and vengefully took her body with a strength that would kill human women.

When all had finished in the second climax, Drekthac felt the last of the beast leave his mind and soul. In the void was only melancholy apathy. His aching body laid out gingerly beside Hilda then, having returned to him on top before the end. He said nothing to her, while she threw a white arm over her eyes and breathed raggedly, her val'kyr body still shaking from the last of her orgasms. He hadn't bothered trying to pleasure her during it, yet it seemed she found it anyways.

He thought of the lost ring and began to muster the will to search for it. Before he even twitched a muscle, the wide hand of Hilda fell upon his chest, and she curled her body against him, with a gentle smile on her lips. The moment his eyes met hers, his mind exploded with visuals of her in every bit of passion, her sighs and screams, the twist of her face at her first climax, and with them came the sensations he himself had felt.

"Leave it," she suggested in a soft voice, but from her, it was demand.

"Fucking psychic," he told her, turning his attention away. He had given her the power he wanted not; with just a look now, she could remind him of this with such detail. He had great control of himself, but she had fingers in his mind, able to move thoughts, urges, and perhaps even lower his resolve against them.

The fingers curled over his hairy chest, the scrape of the nails not painful. She replied, "You seek it from habit. Do not take up the painful reminder without the heart's desire behind it."

He'd bet twenty gold pieces she said that knowing only apathy remained in the wake of their sex. "Do not fucking tell me what to do." Though he said it with heat, he didn't have the passion to back it. She was right that he wanted it from habit, but he'd be twice-damned before he left it to be lost forever more.

She rubbed his chest in the following silence, watching him with her white glass eyes. "You can talk about her now, can't you? What was her name?"

Immediately, he sought to change the topic, but as was her sly way, she spoke with very deliberate meaning. Before his mind could completely expel and deny her request, he came to realize he could speak it without the usual pain. He could talk about her.

"Fuck you, that's her name," he mumbled back. Just because it was so did not mean Hilda had any right to that knowledge. It was a matter of the past anyways.

She sighed softly, and the sound stirred up a thousand other similar sounds during their rough sex. "Must you fight me always, Baelin?"

"Must you always be a conniving bitch? You have not earned any trust from me at all," he returned callously. He left out the sharper bite about her psychic invasions but added, "You take such pride in your manipulations, spinning such grand schemes for such simple results. Maybe you ought to one day try the blunt and simple approach, and maybe you'll find that us blunt and simple folk respond to it well."

He felt Hilda shake with laughter, but a flood of anger drowned out any embarrassment. He did not know why he should care if she laughed at his words or not; not ten minutes ago, she had been screaming his name into her pillows.

"I have worked with vrykul with heads as hard as yours for more years than you have breathed, Baelin. There is no blunt approach that will change anything about you, not even if it came roped to a two ton boulder against your head."

"But we respond to it well," he repeated, and he cracked a smile as she shook with more laughter.

When she finished, she leaned to place a firm kiss against his furry cheek. It sent a pleasant spark through him, riddled with memories of golden days. Still with her enchanting, soft voice, she said, "Then perhaps this will be simple enough for you... I offer you the deed to my name, to be serviced by myself as you see fit."

Drekthac was glad he hadn't been drinking then, for it would have been all over her bed at the sharp intake of breath. He knew better than to accept her word at face value – Hilda did _not_ do this, not even for those she liked. She had a plan in it, and by the gods, he knew better than to rope himself to her any further.

She continued, "I wish to prove my trust to you, but it comes with a small condition: you must keep such a bond secret from Ymirheim."

"Not from Freydis," he countered, "or Maldrid either." Like hell he'd keep secrets from Freydis for Hilda's sa-

"Done," Hilda concluded, and just like that, she had stepped over his quick rejection and secured her way.

Drekthac thought it said much about him that he noticed the very simple, very manipulative trick right away. Before he could establish rejection, she added a subtle challenge knowing he'd argue it, and in arguing it, in arguing conditions, he had already accepted at least the idea. He was glad to also notice how very slow he could be at times, in quick fits of challenge and pride.

Gods, even with his guard up, Hilda could roll right over him and turn him her way. And he was to be _bonded_ to that in a pretense of servitude?

He hated the subtle world enough to just talk right over it. "Now see here, we are just agreeing on the conditions if I accept. I want Freydis' opinion, and certainly Maldrid's, before I accept a third val'kyr – a Hilda one at that!"

An amused smile, with white eyes sparking in their electric way. "Of course, Baelin. Go ahead and ask."

He began to decide on his next course of action. At the moment, he would usually prefer to lay with the night's catch and enjoy the pleasantness of female company and body, but he assumed that tightness would never leave his spine in Hilda's presence. She had the body and mind of a goddess, but he felt no welcome to it, not even with a blatant offering. With the evening's drink already gone from him, he might want to find a stone of ale, but again, beside Hilda, he'd ended up locked in more collars than a succubus in a Nether-play camp if drunk.

Finally, he rose to leave. Just as he sat up from her soft pillows, Hilda's hand touched his shoulder, and he looked to her strangely intent eyes. At his raised eyebrow, she mentioned, "My suggestion of earlier was not entirely test, Baelin. Consider the use of a Ymirheim army against the darklings, for I fear that the time is coming where no mortal force may wait and watch this turn of the world."

His brows drew down, and he escaped her hand to find the ring and his pants. While dressing, he asked somberly, "What makes you think that?"

"The new Lich King, who sleeps on the throne above Icecrown Citadel, has been consumed by darkness. Not the crown, nor the suit, nor the man remain in the living world."

The leg plate Drekthac had been fumbling with slipped from his hands back to the soft bed. He remained still for a long moment, then carefully picked it up again and secured it. "That, Silvertongue, is the information you _start_ a conversation with, not bring up after the conclusion."

"I did not know how you, or any of the rest of Ymirheim's occupants, would receive such news," she admitted.

The honesty surprised Drekthac. He felt Hilda admitting an ignorance was a rare thing, but he could certainly see her using such information to spin webs of manipulations to deal with the threat as she saw fit, even if those involved were unaware of the why.

He asked, "What are your thoughts on the King of Northrend? That Eyenhart guy up north."

"He commands a potent force, which can either help or hinder us. We saw him take those 7th Legion men from their camp below the mountain into his army, the same day you arrived here. Those few soldiers were skilled enough to slay many Ymirjar who came to test their mettle."

"The clan wants to take battle to them, to show that the vrykul do not submit to such a "king." Already a score has left to ambush the army."

"I am aware."

"And I want your thoughts on it. This is how collaboration is supposed to work, darlin'. We both present our thoughts on something, then we make a decision. We don't respond only to the other and try to manipulate them into our own plans."

She had a crass smile on her face, content in her ways. "I dare say we will make the most incompetent team of leaders yet. But the Fool King... I say let us ride against them and test their forces. If they prove worthwhile, and their men prove as those of battle, let us see what agreements can be made. If they are crushed under our weight, then they have no right to life."

"Good. I am leaving to join the attacks." Drekthac lifted his two swords from the floor before the bed and slid them home against his back. Gathering his cloaks about him, he turned a final, vicious grin Hilda's way, then headed for the door in long strides. The same magic that had sealed it unraveled and opened it for him.


	18. Chapter 16: Of Light and War Horns

Chapter 16

_Of Light and War Horns_

* * *

X Fool King X

War horns greeted King Malthon's congregation. Commander Jake, of the 7th Legion, made a deep hum from his horse as they slowed down. His agitation was tightly contained.

Malthon wanted his party small, non-threatening in its appearance. He had taken with him only Balinda Crowngard, Jayce Greylane, Denell Goldwind, Arvin Ironhawk, the commander called only "Jake," and two protectors – one paladin and one death knight. At the Shadow Vault, Terrichon Galean was acting regent, with the heavyset Bardin Ironhawk his enforcing hand.

Their current location was the snowy mountains of Jotunheim, marching through to the vrykul megalopolis nestled on the nook beyond. It hadn't been long before they were noticed, and already they could see several bands of the giants charging towards them, with two drake-riding scouts above.

The death knight protector, a twice-raised undead called Sir Richard Houndson (without explanation to his entitlement), asked morosely, "So while you Light-folk bubble up against them, what am _I_ supposed to do?"

Jake sniffed from his own war horse. "You'll die with me, the blood of a score staining your princely tunic."

"Such a shame. I do enjoy a finely made black," Sir Richard sighed, looking at the tunic his saronite armor was laid over. "I dare say a score and a half, however. You haven't seen these clumsy brutes in action."

For a twice-raised, the man did retain some sense of humor, if always dry, and always sarcastic. It was a far more pleasant personality than what Malthon usually faced.

"You never fought a Ymirjar," Jake returned with a voice of stone. "Let's see how the commonplace measure up." He drew his sword with a sharp ring.

"Put it away," Malthon commanded. He gestured Crown forward at a walk. "We're here to talk of peace, not war."

As he followed on a death charger, Sir Richard couldn't leave the topic there: "If its a dagger in your back that you're looking for, my lord, I can gladly-"

"Stop talking," Balinda cut in quietly but sharp as her own sword. The undead closed his hanging jaw with a click.

Though Malthon said nothing, he turned a look to his once-friend. Since his anointment as King, rifts had opened anew between them, and she remained withdrawn though clearly devoted to her duties. The Balinda that had sat beside him on the bluffs of the Argent Tournament was gone once again.

The hulking scores of the vrykul reached them finally, and Malthon's party stopped their advance. The men and women stopped at a safe distance, holding round shields before them and clashing their weapons against them in a cacophony of noise, adding to it with deep calls and shouts.

One of the proto-drake riders came closer, and he yelled, "What business have you in our lands, small one?"

Malthon remained a pace before the rest, dressed in his shining gold armor, with Crown a steed of brilliant white and colorful barding. He took a breath and returned, loud enough to be heard by all, "I am King Malthon of the small ones of Northrend! I seek words of negotiation with your Overthane – or King if he is present – about the Skinless threat that plagues this land!"

"Hah!" the rider returned. "You expect us to believe that the Fool King would come with a band of so few? We know how you small ones gather armies around your kings, to hide like cowards!"

At once, the Light slammed down onto the collected Paladins, while Commander Jake gladly returned his longsword to his hands. Sir Richard looked from one to the other, then called to him swirling darkness and green mists of undeath, to spiral around his hand and body, and finally a coat of frost crystallized over his armor.

Radiating brilliant moats of Light, his body untouched by shadows, Malthon said in a quiet tone – voice now amplified to be heard even louder – "Vrykul know best that it is not the number of men, but their individual greatness and strength. Show us the way to your ruler."

Though grudging, the vrykul headed his words. In this time where the war was done, it was for the Overthane to decide the fate of outsiders, and they knew from the Dragon not to underestimate those who were small. The vrykul scouting parties led the mounted humans, elf, and dwarf into the city. At sight of them, many of the occupants, civilian or otherwise, took to jeers and even greetings, while the scouts argued away anyone showing hot tempers.

Malthon saw the fortress from the very instant they cleared the path through the mountains. It was raised on the far bluff, and the structure scraped the skies like the lone finger of a titan. It was some miles to reach it, and he took to observing these giant peoples (their heads level with his while mounted), seeing really a simple village life, with perhaps a bit more arms laid about than a human one.

Early on, Sir Richard uttered in his observation, "Ah, my home away from home." Malthon recalled that the death knights had fought the front here for nearly the entire Lich King war, and prejudice had them at each others throats for the time after. The undead would know this place well, in the many tours.

Arvin, keeping to Malthon's left opposite of Jayce, asked, "You sure this is wise, milord? This city goes for miles in every direction. It must have the population of Stormwind or Ironforge."

Malthon did not smile, but serenity and resolve shone through his being. "Not nearly so many. I'd guess a few hundred thousand, but do not worry, old friend, the Light will see us out. And if not the Light, the vrykul will." The leading scout turned a hard eye his way before continuing forward. Malthon spoke for him to hear, "The vrykul aren't buffoons or blood-drunk children. They are men of hard honor and glory-driven, much like the orcs and even the humans of old: the Azotha."

Arvin noticed the louder voice, picking up the intent. In an obstinate tone, he followed, "So?"

"So," Malthon continued, grateful, "We are not here offering sword points, surrender, demands for passivity, or any collars for them to wear. They know our strength belies our size, they know we too follow the ways of war, and we've come now to offer them new war, not with us but from the Skinless fiends that pound at their walls, that drag their women off into the night and leave no remains for the funeral pyres. This is not an insult to our might or there's, but a brotherhood in the ways of arms, and any thane with a level head will know the advantage of an alliance between us."

"Hah," the leading man dismissed. "You speak like the Whelp. We will see what Overthane Ufrangsson thinks of your pretty words and shiny lights."

At the fortress, they dismounted and entered, while the escort of scouts was replaced by an escort of guards. The band leader gave Malthon's party one last look, then urged his men back into the rolling city of Jotunheim. The new escort was stoic, not even sneering as they walked, while Malthon's comrades remained close to him as the guards pressed in against them in the walk through the corridors.

Entirely unlike human palaces or castles, the throne room was furthest from the entrance. They walked up massive stairways, with the stone vrykul steps reaching over their knees each ("-not very dwarf friendly!"). Outdoors, they passed twice, walking along high terraces with outstanding views of the city and the thorny mountain range. Hundreds of guards manned the fortress, inside and out, and they gave cold looks Malthon's way in passing.

Finally, one last stairway remained, this one of longer and thinner steps, and the guards stopped them there. The commander, or whatever rank vrykul passed to their men, told them with a voice like a whip, "Draw your weapons at your own peril, worms. When you greet him, you will bow – like this!" The hulking man clasped a fist over his breast and bent at the hips, lowering his eyes to the floor. Righted again, he continued, "If he rises, you bow again. Should he offer challenge, only one may fight. Should you dishonor him by speaking over his words, your lives are forfeit. Should you displease him, your lives are forfeit."

Denell frowned at the vrykul. "You would have a king – and lords, mind you – bow to another? Your boldness is atrocious and barbaric!"

The giant's lips curled. "I do not expect a woman to understand _respect_, long ears! You do not kneel because you do not serve him, but you bow for he granted your requested audience, has taken you into his court, and risks his life to hear your miserable words!"

"Woman?" Lord Denell Goldwind repeated, affronted. Arvin and even Sir Richard laughed at the high elf lord.

"Yer too pretty, lad!" Arvin managed between guffaws. "Get yourself a beard like Malthon's."

Denell pointed to his scarred face, rent apart from temple to lip. "This, pretty?"

"If you are quite done!" the vrykul shouted at them, spittle flying and face reddening in rage. "Try to compose yourself like grown men when addressing the Overthane! Now approach, you worms."

They began to advance up the stairs. The commander kept the lead, while the rest of the guard crowded behind them, weapons drawn and ready. During the ascent, Arvin continued to Lord Goldwind, "Aye, milord – pretty for a vrykul." Even the elven lord smiled.

Malthon made no comment to the conversation, but he appreciated the heart his men kept in the face of this danger. They were in hostile lands, to speak to the very ruler of the savage people. Balinda beside him was as grim and stoney as Jayce at his right flank, and he kept himself as somber. It was well for a king to present himself as composed, always.

At the final steps, Sir Richard Houndson and Knight Marcanus Fouster added to Malthon's escort, taking to their duties with appropriate severity. Lord Goldwind, Arvin, and Commander Jake followed at a measured distance, content to leave Malthon to the negotiations.

Atop the stairway was not a throne room like that of King Ymiron, down in Howling Fjord. It appeared to Malthon to serve as an armory and trophy room, for weapon and armor racks were common along the walls, and with them were plaques, mounted weapons glowing with enchantments and runes, and also many war banners. Malthon recognized a few, including 7th Legion's, but what caught his attention most was the one he had also hung on the walls of the Shadow Vault – the white flag, featuring three black circles, each within the one before in decreasing size.

Malthon counted a total of twelve guards stationed inside the room, not including any hunters hiding in shadows with drawn bows. The crowd now blocking the stairway behind them doubled that number. He paid them all no mind though, focusing on the massive figure resting on the throne before them.

Overthane Ufrangsson made an imposing figure, with muscles ripping past tight armor confines, much like the smaller Bardin Ironhawk. His beard was long and braided, deep red in color, and his crown of dark iron was a regular horned helmet, much like Malthon who only chose to wear his smooth centurion helmet similar to Balinda's. But the Overthane did not show menace or loathing on his face. His eyes were narrowed with thought and lips pensive, and one hand touched his beard as he looked at those who entered.

Malthon stopped himself in the very center of the throne room, as he had been taught by his father, with his four guards right behind. His fist came to his chest, prompting the others to follow, and he bowed as he had been shown. The sound of jolly laughter surprised him.

"Ah, I see Vagrim already sank some teeth into you. Right yourselves, small ones, and obey court law as you know it. I have read extensively on the subject, to carry proper welcome in moments such as these." The voice of Ufrangsson was deep, resonating in its power, but it was smooth and twinged with the same buzz Malthon heard from court wizards and Dalaran mages, that of a certain intrigue to all matters in the world.

As the Light had assured the others through him, Malthon knew there would be no worry in the proceeds of this conversation. He barely warded off his smile.

As their gazes rose, the Overthane continued, "Welcome, small ones, to Balargarde Fortress, my home and the ruling seat of Jotunheim. Speak quick and speak honest, and on this day we may all part with our hearts still beating. Why have you requested audience?"

"My name is Malthon Eyenhart, and I am he who was anointed ruler and king over the many small ones of Northrend, most particularly those remaining upon this glacier. I come not with words of peace, but with words of war."

Ufrangsson had a wide grin at the words, and he straightened on his throne. "Yes, some of your kind fight well despite your size. So you wish to spread more blood on our lands, do you?"

"I do," Malthon replied, and the guards of the room began to mutter. He paid them no mind, instead pointing to the left at the white and black banner. "But not your blood. We call them the Skinless, and I know we both have faced trials in the new incursions from them."

The mellow, amused expression of the Overthane remained in place, and Malthon realized he couldn't read the vrykul because of it. "So, the Fool King seeks vrykul help against the darklings, does he? Is your steel and muscle not enough to weather this storm?"

Malthon lowered his hands and closed his eyes. He opened a link to the Light, to channel it into him, and then faced the Overthane again. "If I may speak honestly, then I will say neither is yours."

Thud!

A metal polearm slammed into the stone floor, sending a loud, vibrating ringing into their ears. "Shall I take his head, my liege?" the one called Vagrim asked.

Ufrangsson waved him back. "Not yet... As you can see, human Malthon Eyenhart, such slanders against our strength have consequences. Can you defend your insult, or will I repay it in blood and challenge?"

Malthon remained calm. "The incursions we have withstood are nothing but the overflow of a larger force. In the lands of the Storm Peaks, the true army of the Skinless – of the darklings – lays in wait like a boiling cauldron. If I have read my reports correctly, even the Scourge has been nearly obliterated by this new foe, and soon, I fear their master will send them into the world, raping and burning everything to ash. My kingdom, your city, and all the rest."

Ufrangsson was nonplussed. "The darklings die in droves to our blades. You have not proven their threat."

"Aye, many die easily, no better than basic footmen or a vrykul villager. But they have warriors too, those whom might be marked by their lack of eyes. They are larger, even more wrong in shape, and with them comes a power I feel even the vrykul would respect... and they are not few in number."

"Truly, small one?" Ufrangsson rumbled in a deep, thoughtful tone. "Tell me, how many of these sightless creatures have you felled?"

"Many. They come sometimes in the daily attacks."

"No, human. How many has the "King of Northrend" himself felled?"

Malthon paused, spine straight and hands behind his back. He felt more along the lines of a soldier than a king as he looked into the glittering dark eyes of the Overthane. "Six. I have personally seen to the slaying of six."

A new wave of muttering overtook the guards of the room, while Ufrangsson grinned on his throne. "Good, good. It is well to see that the humans choose their leaders on more than tongue, but in strength too. I know of the sightless creatures you speak of, and they are indeed glorious enemies to cut down. You! Flesh-earthen, what do you know of the vrykul?"

Arvin started at being singled out, but he stepped forward, beside Malthon, and he bowed once again before speaking: "Little, sir. Only what we've learned since coming for the war."

"And if I told you that once, in an age past, the earthen and the vrykul were once stanch allies against the evils of the old world. The earthen did the labor, in building and crafting, and we served on the fronts, defending the lands in glorious battle."

Arvin stroked his own beard then for a long moment, carefully considering his next words. They came finally as: "Then I would say that such an alliance has continued to the progeny of the earthen and vrykul." He gestured to himself and Malthon.

Ufrangsson nodded. "So I have seen. But your kinds are now weak, taken by the curse of flesh, and you are prone to the psychic advances and deadly powers once common in the old world. I have heard that even saronite can overtake the mind of your kinds."

Malthon returned, "Yet it was our kind that slew the Death God of Ulduar, to whom saronite was attributed as the blood of. And it is our kind, as the collective small ones, who also slew another, called C'Thun. Behind me is one who both overthrew the psychic chains of the Lich King and also wields and wears saronite with ease."

"Yes, the rotting one. He whom runs from death and the glory of the afterlife."

Sir Richard whispered, "May I speak, my King?" Malthon assented. To the vrykul Overthane, Sir Richard said, "Far from run, I have been thrust back into this world and more than once. Your val'kyr are largely responsible for such, so if you dare call me a coward for being risen, when it aches my soul in every moment this dead heart beats, you will take upon yourself the title of fool."

"My liege!" Vagrim shouted, but again Ufrangsson waved him back.

The vrykul nodded at the undead death knight. "Good. And the women. I see you also carry steel, and you, elf, have gained much marks of beauty on your face." Malthon could see Denell physically struggling with his restraint to not speak over the thane in complaint. "Do your soft hearts falter on the killing blows of enemies? Could you give the hand of mercy to a loved one in the greatest of pains?"

Malthon remained quiet, but the question was surprising. Balinda, falter? Never. But could she euthanize one she cared for...? For all her stone, her sharpness, her indomitable spirit... she was still human and a woman. Cold deeds, even a mercy-killing, were burdens for men to bear.

With all her usual gusto, she returned boldly, "If it were my king himself, I could grant him the mercy of freedom."

Ufrangsson's eyebrows rose, and he sat straighter still. "Ah, good! I hear a lie in your voice, but in time, and repeated enough, even lies become truth."

"Have you finished your tests of our mettle, Overthane?" Malthon asked, in the following moment. He did not want to consider those words and their validity.

A grin returned his question. "You must forgive my curiosities. My conversations with your kind are few, and the one stood there before, though he had much heart, was not one for words at length. So you have come to offer alliance between your forces and my city, but that is not all. Another matter plagues your mind. Speak it."

Malthon nodded reluctantly. "The Ymirjar. We have not incited war or their attention, but in the midst of our growing offensive against the darklings, they have descended their mountain to try for our defenses and positions. The unprepared have been claimed prematurely, and even when a proper defense brutally crushes an ambush, they seem entirely undeterred, even glad for their defeat."

For once, the Overthane sobered. His hand returned to his crimson beard. "The Ymirjar march for war, you say? Such is an unusual occurrence, for they are content in their paradise. But to gladly die at your hands, that is their way, though it says much of you. They believe your armies to be great enough to grant them glorious deaths in battle. If such a scent is found by them, then like sharks, they will frenzy about your kingdom until no one left carries the strength to give them their deaths. You have my respect, small one."

Malthon's confidence was unphased. The Light had a plan here; he could feel it. "Tell me, who rules the vrykul now? You are Master of Jotunheim, but what of the rest of the vrykul people?"

Ufrangsson shrugged his massive shoulders. "Queen Angerboda was slain before she could conceive a child, and we have not organized enough to anoint a new king... Let me assure you now, small one, that you certainly won't be him." The guards within the room laughed. Malthon noticed that they held a firmer presence here than human courts. Any present vrykul always seemed like a council, or a brother, with voice, not silent statues to fight and die for the king.

It also meant that the Overthane must speak for their benefit, to their likings, rather than take his own actions. It made a nice check and balance, if it didn't restrict speech into the patterns and traditions of the vrykul people – it worked like tribe chieftains, Malthon realized.

"Then the choice is solely yours," Malthon announced. "You, Overthane, hold the decision of finding the glory in a new war, with us former enemies at your side. If I may express a presumption, this foe may very well be a horror of the old world, and hardy vrykul are exactly the brothers in arms that I wish to see. You need not be involved with our dealings against the Ymirjar; I will personally see to the end of their threat soon enough."

Boisterous laughter. The Overthane shook upon his throne, hand on his knee, and the others within the room fared no better. When he could right himself again, Ufrangsson said, "So bold, small one! I would pay a king's ransom to see you in a pit with the Dragon!"

"Dragon?" Malthon asked, curiosity seeping into his mellow tones.

Ufrangsson's eyes twinkled maliciously. "He came here some seasons past. A ferocious fighter, with fangs that reach over six feet, and an appetite that no vrykul could ever sate. Fierce, majestic in battle, ripping apart his foes with the grace and ease of a bird in the sky... A human, much like yourself, only the blood of vrykul, the blood of the _Ymirjar_ flowed through his veins. He proved himself worthy of Valhalas, slaying the mighty Thane Byjron and even felling Ymirjar warriors, taking Gjonner the Merciless as a brother in arms!"

Malthon's brows rose. He could only imagine the reactions of those behind him. "A human?" The Whelp comments, the mentions of Dragon within the city. It became clear to him. "A human has become Ymirjar?"

Ufrangsson hissed through grimy teeth: "Indeed. I trust you will encounter him soon enough, perhaps even watch him claim your head."

"Or he may listen to reason," Malthon mentioned pensively. "But for later. Have you reached a decision, Overthane?"

"Indeed I have!" Ufrangsson announced. "I have decided you may leave with your lives, every one of you."

Malthon didn't have to look to know what was coming, and he silenced any complaints with a raised hand. Closing it into a fist, he lowered it and nodded to the vrykul. Dryly, he said, "You are too generous. Is that all then?"

"That is all for you and now," the Overthane confirmed. He pointed a massive finger at Malthon, however. "But in two days hence, the armies of Jotunheim will pound on your saronite doors, Fool King. We are long overdue for a glorious war. Hope our banners are raised and the horns are silent, otherwise I will have decided that you small chimps do not amuse me enough for anything more than easy blood."

Malthon smiled. He was surprised at the wolfish feel of it. "I will see you then, Overthane. I look forward to a second meeting."

Ufrangsson returned it with a grin of his own, eyes still dark in their intent, until he glanced over to where Vagrim waited. "Let them go. See them through the valley."

Without further preamble, the guards against formed around Malthon's band and took to their tight escort back through the fortress. Vagrim did not follow after the orders were passed. Looking to Ufrangsson, once the small ones were far from earshot, he asked, "Do I send the call for war, my liege?"

"Once they are through the mountains," Ufrangsson nodded. He snorted a laugh to himself, rethinking their conversation over.

"My liege, will we finally see to the end of the small ones?"

Urfrangsson stood from his throne, and all the present vrykul dropped to their knees. "End them? By the gods, no! Could you not see the blessings bestowed upon the Fool King? Should he have lifted that hammer, not a single one of us would have survived. And a fool that king is not; he is a warrior and clever. We shall watch how they fare against the Ymirjar, and should they survive, we will accept their arms in an offense against the darklings. Now rally the thanes!"

"Right away, my liege," Vagrim growled beneath his breath, chastised but not shaken. He hesitated. "You believe they might hold against the _Ymirjar?"_

Ufrangsson nodded slowly, then took to pacing before his throne. Finally, with a hand stroking his beard, he stopped before the white flag with three circles and stared at its plain face. "That human is a match for the Dragon himself, and those with him are no less. We shall see their faring, when Fenrir meets Dragon."

"My liege! You would praise the humans so? They are small and pathetic!" Vagrim sputtered, and he lifted his head to Ufrangsson.

Ufrangsson turned, his expression flat and dangerous. Vagrim bared his teeth but did not retreat. "How did my father die, Vagrim?"

"Small one cowardice! Thane Ufrang the Mighty allowed a "messenger" only to meet an executioner!"

"Allegiance," Ufrangsson countered coldly. "He fought for the Scourge when the thanes moved towards independence, and when the small ones came for him, he fought and died alone. My father was a great tactician and warrior, but it was his allegiances that killed him, underestimating the small ones, even a messenger. I will not fall into his mistakes. I will use them to honor and outgrow his legacy."

Vagrim stood finally and made for the stairway in silence. At the edge, he stopped to face the Overthane. "My liege, an alliance with them is Hela's work. It will get you killed."

The stomp sent all the stones of the palace shivering, as Ufrangsson roared, "I do not fear death, maggot! I will do what is best for my people, and I will gladly die to save them from certain death! Now begone, and do not return until you have meditated upon the tomb of Iskalder and relearned honor!"

Vagrim fled to complete his tasks.

XxX

Malthon's party did not speak until they were already at the path between the Jotunheim mountains, alone again. It was Lord Goldwind who spoke first:

"Well that went quite well, did it not? The fresh arctic air still biting our lungs, the sun shining over head, and an army of what might be a hundred thousand soon to siege our walls. A good day, friends."

Balinda glared at him. "You could not feel it? Are you that weak in the Light or only a fool?"

Denell raised his long eyebrows at her, but his lips pressed pensively. "Malthon did his usual "bend the world's knee to me" trick, but I... Oh... Ohoho! Is that what that was? Malthon, you sly dog!"

"I haven't a clue of what you're suggesting," Malthon returned calmly, not turning his attention from the path. Denell laughed.

"What is it?" Jayce asked finally. Jake was also looking, though he'd been unwilling to voice his own questions.

It was Balinda who spoke, bitter: "The Light does as the Light wills, or as King Malthon wills. It wrapped the Overthane in his gravitation, controlled his thoughts and will towards amiability, inescapable in its grasp. Two days hence, Malthon's army will have arrived, ready and waiting for our war."

"It can do that?" Sir Richard cried from his skeletal horse. "Sounds no better than the Shadow!"

All the paladins glanced at him, and after a hanging moment, his jaw clicked shut. He gave them a shrewd returning look until they returned to their conversation.

"We can only hope he agrees to the alliance," Malthon said finally. "For now, we must arm ourselves to face the Ymirjar. I will take my place on the front lines. I need to find someone who can speak for them, even if they operate with no leader. That Dragon will have to do."

"My king, it is not wise to be direct with the Ymirjar," Sir Marcanus argued. "Not even the best of us can assure your safety against them." Balinda snorted loudly at that. Nervously, he added, "Excepting Lady Crowngarde, of course."

"Excepting the Light you mean," she said. "Have faith. It wouldn't let this lummox die even if he danced on the Frozen Throne and pissed off the edge of the citadel."

"Ah, the Crowngarde, hard at work," Jayce cut in wryly. She shot him a baleful look.

"Enough," Malthon rumbled in his solid voice. "Bicker all you like in private, but with me, you will compose yourselves appropriately. Should a Ymirjar spy be watching us now, he'd have nothing to report between his laughter, and we'd have no terms in negotiation."

Balinda turned away with her expression tight, watching the snow, brooding. He hated to treat her like this, but there were duties now, responsibilities, and they needed a sense of unity if they were to survive this barren wasteland. "How's our food and water stores looking?"

Lord Goldwind answered, "Between my battery and the death knights, we are looking at a good six month campaign of non-perishables, if we don't establish a supply line. With the vrykul numbers, we will need to recalculate, but at least then we might know of a steady supply."

"I could do for a few more mages. They work like damned walking feast tables, but my two men couldn't supply more than a score each continuously," Commander Jake added in, his voice gruff as his bearing and armor were.

Malthon said, "That is still forty less mouths to feed. We will figure matters out when the vrykul come. We cannot afford to march into the Storm Peaks only to starve to death. Let's pick up speed; I don't want to return only to see the vault in flames from the Ymirjar. Yah!"

XxX

"Lord Goldwind. Glad you could come," King Malthon greeted upon Denell Goldwind's arrival. The chambers within the Shadow Vault were few, but with proper accommodations, it had been fixed into an impoverished king's quarters. It suited the paladin who'd have rather have a spartan tent, the one also called Fool King. In a building where all the walls were saronite, the decorators had little choice but to cover them entirely with drapes and even an extensive painting rolling green hills.

Denell felt the usual pull on his face of the stretching scar as he smiled at the smaller human. "Of course, my king. I was told this is a matter of no importance, but your messenger did well in appealing to my curiosities."

The king was seated in a wood chair at his small table, thumbing over an opened letter. Though dressed in full armor, minus his helmet, King Malthon came to his feet swiftly and offered the second chair. "Just wanted a friendly face, and someone who is more on my side than the usual bowing and scraping before the king."

"We are all on your side, my king," Denell told him, amused, but he sat as offered, careful with the weight of himself and his own heavy plate. "You bear the duty well, and order has been maintained through the impossible. Scarlets and Ebon Knights, Light, you can seem a miracle."

"Keep this up, and I'll toss you out on your elven behind myself," Malthon warned wryly, but they grinned at each other following. Denell understood how the human must feel. The ceaseless reverence could make a lonely life, always isolated. Dame Balinda had taken to a wide avoidance of him, despite her place as protector; she was his next stop this night.

"So if not the important matters, what unimportant matter ails the king now?" Denell asked, and he nodded thanks as Malthon poured them both goblets of wine. Lifting gold chalice, he added, "If it is a drinking companion you want, I know a glamor to fit you in with the usual raff among the troops. Can't promise any bar fights with these boys, but stir some waters and you'll find a few lashes of tongues."

"I'll keep it in mind," Malthon replied, finding an easy smile. "But no, my wits must remain about me. I do not mean any offense by this, but can you perchance read or understand Darnassian? I received a splinter in Crystalsong Forest that hasn't bothered to dislodge since."

He slid the opened letter over to Denell. Fine parchment – cloth, silk by touch, with precise, flawless ink strokes in what could easily be recognized as elven letterings. Though only a high elf of Quel'thelas, he began to scan the enchanting lines. Malthon spoke to him as he read, sounding aggravated:

"A kaldorei woman has been haunting our camp since then. A Light-blasted living kaldorei, from perhaps before the breaking. She's taken a fondness to dropping in on me, testing my mind with spells or my nerve with complaints. I think she even saved my life once."

Unable to help himself, Denell began laughing. He deliberately closed the letter and slid it back, though he had read much further than he likely should have. It was difficult not to, with a letter like that. Grinning at the human lord turned king, he said, "The fondness is certainly clear there! If she ever tires of you, send her my way, and I'll pledge House Goldwind to the Eyenhart line for ages to come."

"So you can read it?" King Malthon asked, surprised. "Would you translate for me?"

"Mostly, I can connect their runes to our own – the writing seems closer to Thalassian than the words, at least – but I hope you're certain you want this. So far as I can tell, this is a piece of high class, articulate pornography, one of the finest of its kind." Denell barely strangled a bark of laugh at the look that came to Malthon's face. He covered it with a cough, adding, "This woman has a sound head for these things, and an ingenuous wit for both its presentation and... events."

Finally, Malthon set down his goblet and groaned, leaning back with a gauntlet falling over his face. "Tell me you are joking."

Denell retrieved the letter and cleared his throat, fighting against the smile trying to form. "Let's see... 'By the river brook, in freshest moonlight sky, I would have you see my temple in the sheen against my flesh. Take the wind from my mouth, and fill that ghastly void with pleasure serpent of-'"

"Enough!" Malthon cut in, and with the elbow braced against the table, his head fell into his palm. "Light, man. _Light."_

"Light indeed," Denell exclaimed, staring into the innocent depths of the letter. "Though from the entwining circle of vipers, I think she means tongue with that last one." He mumbled something in the smooth elven tongue, coming like a whispered song, then shook his head, "The human tongue is so clumsy for art like this. What you describe as locations is read here as states of being, and the seamless flow of runes here an old elven slang I cannot even explain, but its beautiful in reference. Light, man, she's thrown together more intricacies of language than I'd even remembered existing."

"So who is she?" Malthon asked in a tired voice. "A queen? Or perhaps a rhetorician of high courts and boundless libraries?"

Denell traced the bottom lines, soon shrugging in reply. "The thing about our runes are they are in meaning, not sounds. I haven't a clue how to read her name, and the titles are equally unfamiliar. High class, though, that is seen by the "elite" ending here of the first word, but I do not recognize the detailing prefix."

"Do you think you could speak with her if she shows again?"

Denell gave a hesitant shrug. "Thalassian and Darnassian both descended from the kaldorei tongue, so it might be easier than conversing with a modern night elf. But I make no promises, and I doubt she'd welcome my appearance even so. This woman is a conqueror, if not of kingdoms, then of men, and I am the last who wants to intrude on her campaign."

"Always glad to have stout brothers at my side in times of hardship," Malthon droned with a deliberate look.

Denell snorted, and his scar stretched again at his wide smile. "She very clearly outlines only two things are going to be hard with her: your... well, humans call it driftwood, but we have a praising form for wood that has been smoothed and softened by waters; the other, of course, is the implied pace of things. Everything else from her is smooth, silken, shivering-ecstasy _softness."_

King Malthon's glare was brief, and Denell's insolent smile never left him. "Is there anything of use in there? The address to me, the conclusion, anything apart from... that?"

After another glance through, Denell shook his head. "So long as we are on topic of unimportant things, however, I will say I am reminded of my disdain for the Common tongue. Her whole style of writing is a provocative tease. The, shall we say, juicy bits are completely shrouded in liberal use of metaphors, allusions, and- and, well, you don't even have a word for this. _Issielaro,_ where descriptions of the internal represent the happenings of the external. And, I'd even forgotten, but she has a clever use of "Congruent _Issielaro,"_ which is the description of the internal to describe the _physical_ internal. Raunchy minx; Light, but the lines of suitors she must have had once."

Malthon accepted the letter back with a shake of his head, then stood. Denell watched him move to his iron-clad chest, carefully returning the letter to a collection of others, while Malthon said, "And by her experience, I bet she also moved through them one by one."

Had Denell been of a lessor sort, the wine he was currently drinking would have sprayed entirely over the table. Instead, he stopped the latest swallow, holding the wine in his mouth while he chuckled, then finished his drink with a grin. "If I find myself a wife with half that language skill and wit, I'd count my luck as one with the stars. My advice to you, brother, is do not turn her away solely for that appearance. She might believe, as is true for nearly any man not strong in the Light, that the easiest way to establish peaceful ties is through the bedchambers. She could be an educated virgin, or reciting an aged poem, for all we know."

"No one of noble line begins with their true face," Malthon agreed, though his reply was bitter. He had interacted with this elf before; he wasn't sure she could compose herself any other way.

"Ah, but you do," Denell countered, amused at his own twist of sides. He stood when Malthon did from the chest, and he saluted. "For its worth, may you find a deep sleep tonight without the warmth of a darling courtesan, my king. And may I never have to pass a blessing like _that_ to another!"

Malthon waved him away, but they parted with friendly grins. Outside the king's chambers, Denell shook his head, laughing softly. His hands found the pockets beneath his breastplate, hiding from the cold of the vault, and he proceeded with a soft whistle, an old elven tune. His thoughts were of home, where such rhetoric would have faced great scrutiny and acclaim.

Though his walk appeared whimsical to the soldiers and servicemen who bowed to him, Denell knew his exact destination, though his path was not at all linear. After a time of watching the distant lands outside their tucked fortress, he turned away from the snow and returned to the depths of the vault. This one had chosen her quarters exactly opposite of the king.

He made a count to five after his two short raps when the saronite door swung inward. Like him, like the king, Dame Balinda Crowngarde never seemed to leave her armor. Even her heavy blue cloak remained fastened to her wide shoulders. Surprise did not touch her face, though by hesitation he knew she hadn't expected his appearance.

Bowing formally, he said to the small human woman, "Pardon, but I wished to speak to you, if you don't mind the company, my lady."

She was a rather charming-looking lass, he noticed, though far rougher than any elven women. Despite what the rest of the world thought, they enjoyed the roughness of the other races, much like he was told of their fondness for the slender, flawless, refined features of the elves. To Denell, elves were like fine paintings, but humans were real people.

He kept his attractions to himself, however, as he patiently studied her face. That line of silver in her neatly brushed hair caught his attention, as it always did. He wished to ask, but he did not.

"Lord Goldwind," she greeted finally, stepping aside. "Come in. I can spare a spell before I retire."

Though a hard woman, he was glad to see her expression soften a tad. That would change before his parting.

Inside was King Malthon's dream room. Entirely spartan: bare metal walls, a lone cot in the corner, a chest, a fold chair and matching table, and a mat with only a blue-plumed helmet. There was not room for them both to sit, but he did not intend to stay long.

Dame Balinda closed the door behind them, and she settled at the wall with her arms crossed, facing him. She said, "Forgive my lack of proper reception. I was not expecting visitors."

"And it is not like me to drop in, unannounced," he told her. A moment later, his head bowed, but he kept his eyes upon her stormy grey ones. "I would like to discuss King Malthon with you."

"Oh?" The hardness returned as quick as the donning of a mask or armor. There was much duty to this woman on the matter, and much conflict.

"Ease yourself, Lady Crowngarde. I mean only to bring certain knowledge to light, for your sake."

"You have my ears, Lord Goldwind."

"And apparently your ire as well," he mentioned with a light grin, but he wilted under her steely gaze. He recalled Malthon's embellished letter, and he thought of the ways he might speak if this were a formal Thalassian meeting. He remained constricted to the Common tongue: "This conversation cannot go the way I wish, for you will reject me before a point can be driven home, but I will test my limits with you. Warn me when you must, but try to bear more than you ought."

"I am not a testy queen in earshot of her favorite headsmen, lord. Speak plain and speak clear, and the Light will ensure that right is done here."

Denell had taken to pacing at the far end of the confined room, but he ceased his restlessness and quelled his mental warnings. Facing her, he asked, plain as requested, "Do you love Malthon?"

His lips yearned to twitch in smile as he saw her immediately begin to reject the question as personal. Her quick mind seemed to note his prior words of limits, and while she fought for a just answer, he simplified the matter by saying, "You spoke boldly, but even the Overthane noticed the doubt in your voice at the thought of delivering Malthon into death, for whatever the cause. We who fight the Scourge know of this burden more so than any other, yet your thoughts hesitate."

Balinda did not look away from his face as he spoke, nor did her cheeks heat with blush or show sign of embarrassment. She truly was a hard woman. When she finally spoke, at his conclusion, it was to say, "Malthon Eyenhart is the boy I grew up with my whole life. To him, I could be open and honest, about anything. To him, I could share the pressures of being raised noble, to him I could share my revelations of the beauty of the Light. To me, he had shared his darkest secrets, his blackest fears, and it was my voice that took him from a burning home to leading the refugees of Lordaeron to safety. We were promised to each other, and had the Scourge not claimed everything from us, we would have shared a life entirely apart from where we are now...

"Lord Goldwind, I know my duties, and I know my work, but you cannot share those bonds with someone and say in a certain voice you could kill them if the need arose. Even if those bonds have vanished in time."

Denell nodded, but he had to take to pacing again, keeping his head clear in the motion. "Compassion. I am glad to see brothers and sisters still versed in its lessons, Dame Balinda. But though you address the clues, you do not address the question: do you love him, more than a sister might?"

She said nothing, pinned against the wall as she was. Just a sentinel in steel, of steel, until she slowly shook her head. A decline, but not verbalized.

Denell reminded himself to take the topic softly. "I am worried, Dame Balinda. About you more than the king – because while dissent was expected from you, this severity was not."

Not even a spark of anger broke her mask as she exclaimed, "Malthon is no king, nor high general, nor other executive figure. He is a lord and a paladin."

The doe was in the trap. Spring, not with teeth, but with net: "He is an Eyenhart, and the Eyenhart's are leaders, if I recall my Lordaeron noble lines. That is why you urged him to lead the refugees of your burning kingdom, rather than jump beside him in the support-" _he needed_ "-of a second noble. That is why I urged him to take the place of king here."

The struggle, coming from stormy eyes and unyielding resolve: "Let's not be fools, lord. One does not need to be _king_ to lead, and that is the flaw here. King's command different duties, different responsibilities and formalities, entirely separate from a ruling lord, which Malthon is. I'd have given him my life without being pressed onto my knee in the servitude of a Crowngarde."

Does the hunter approach the doe, to cut its throat in swift death? Or does he remove the net, releasing it into the wild to reflect upon the odd encounter? Denell showed the knife: "Malthon does not have the heart of a king, on that I agree with you, my lady." For once, she appeared surprised. "Though he has the ability and wisdom, that is not why I turned him into accepting the position. It was not ambition but necessity. Our forces: Argent, Scarlet, and Ebon, we do not mix like fine tea. We churn like cauldrons, boiling and fighting until we erupt in combustion.

"We needed stability. We needed an iron hand, not of cold strength, but of broad authority. Malthon was not only the best choice for the task, he was the only choice. And he saw that too, with the last of Lordaeron looking at him in the buzzing moment of considering themselves a rightful king. Light, he had no choice in this, not with how he is compelled into always giving himself for higher purposes."

Balinda remained silent, but her face showed a storm of new thoughts. Denell knew his words could never change who she was, and she would rebound into the same biting, ferocious maiden of steel that she was. From the intrigue of her latest stare, he knew she was thinking back on his early words of the conversation, but he hesitated in bringing the words forth.

Dare he tell her what she would not admit to herself? Dare he remind the last Crowngarde of her own oaths?

The hunter kept the knife at the doe's throat, hesitating. This was not a matter of compassion, but consequence. Take the kill, but he must follow the course of preparing himself dinner, preparing the leather, and whittling the bones – to the end. _This conversation cannot go the way I wish._ Grimacing, he quickly cut the doe loose of the net, freeing it:

"Malthon is lonely," he said instead. "Everyone, including you, seem to have abandoned him to his Duty. Try to understand he is still the lord you know, even as a king, and support him all the same. When this is all over, Malthon with pass down – or shatter – the crown upon his head, and he will return to the life he loves, in doing right by the Light, and treating his fellows as brothers, not subjects." _Wait until then,_ he clipped from his conclusion, like so much else.

As Dame Balinda delayed further in replying, acting entirely improper in a conversation between nobles, Denell Goldwind sought to bridge the gap in proper manner: "Forgive my rant, my lady. It was rash, and bold, and I am shamed by its demands. I will depart now and let you rest the night." He moved towards the door, and automatically, Balinda pulled it open for him.

At the threshold, he paused at a very soft whisper: "Thank you."

Denell smiled, though she couldn't see, and he continued out, stuffing his hands into his pockets and finding his whistling tune once again. Had an elven woman said that, he'd be left wondering what revelation she thanked him for, for what path he opened or opportunity she gained, or even if a burden had been lifted in their subtle way. From a stout human woman, it was nothing more than a gratitude for his words on the matter.

He wondered if she'd sleep at all this night. He knew he wouldn't.

XxX

"Those are war horns, my king. Shall we prepare a defense?"

It was frightful to King Malthon how quickly the Scourge had fallen. When first marching through the glacier, he had hoped to use them as a buffer between his forces and the Skinless. For a time, it had worked. As the days progressed, especially now ten days after being raised king, the Scourge had been reduced down to only their citadel. The armies of Jotunheim had marched through the arctic vale challenged only by Skinless.

Those black-skinned numbers had reduced greatly these last few days, replaced by the marauding bands of Ymirjar. It was still in debate which was the worst threat. The day before, Malthon had led them into a skirmish with the Ymirjar, slaying a dozen of the behemoths himself. A hundred and fifty of his men needed redeeming following it – a fifth of his total fighting force, left in the hospital fighting the sickness of death.

Now the Jotunheim armies were here, not in a unified column of men but a blotchy trail that reached back for miles. Commander Jake had averaged them to ten thousand – hardly a fraction of the vrykul capital, yet nearly twenty times the size of Malthon's own army. The Overthane had kept much in reserve, likely to defend his city in the war.

It was a real fighting force, as seen in the days of the war against the Lich King. Malthon's troop could be called no more than a band in comparison, even though he held mostly paladins, full death knights, and 7th Legion men – over four hundred, in the census, with another hundred and fifty of basic footmen and militia. All but perhaps a score of his followers fought; the invalids had already marched south to find haven in New Hearthglen.

Standing on the bluffs flanking the Shadow Vault, heading his usual military followers, Malthon answered the question: "They are not here to war, but it would be foolish not to rally. Show them no weakness. Line the walls with range, whatever we have, and set the ranks behind barricades, same as a Ymirjar charge. We will stand at the front."

The officer saluted and turned his charger back around, disappearing quickly down the slopes. To Knight Marcanus Fouster, Malthon's paladin bodyguard, Sir Richard Houndson mentioned, "Well, at least our dear Fool King justly earned his title."

"Silence your treasonous tongue, death knight," Sir Marcanus whispered sharply. He had come from the Scarlet Onslaught paladins, down in the Dragonblight, and had marched with Malthon since. Though the tabard and many of their ideals had been discarded long ago, Marcanus had not welcomed the Ebon Blade with open arms.

The two were called the White and Black Knights, by some. They got along well, despite their differences.

"Let's move," King Malthon declared, turning his own horse around to begin the descent. He wouldn't involve himself in their dialogues unless kingly word was needed, not while in public.

In barely twenty minutes, everything was prepared and quiet. The opening war horn had been the only blare, and the vrykul had not moved to charge, slowly climbing their steps. The men remained tense in their wait, though Malthon was calm and relaxed. The vrykul could not rile him up, nor did their presence threaten him.

The Overthane was clear among the hordes, riding at the very front as one of the very few to be mounted. It was no proto-drake either – scores of those soared above the troops already – it was, strangely, a demonic felsteed scaled to meet his size. In fact, Malthon had yet to see a vrykul cavalry of anything else.

Horses of the Nether that did not need to be fed or cared for, could be summoned and dismissed anywhere without need of stabling, did not grow aged or weak, could be cast into a new body when weary. Paladins knew the reasons well, for it was the same with their own chargers of the Light. Only, they did not need to dabble in warlock arts, incite ire from demonic masters, or risk the temptations of the powers.

When the vrykul neared the last flat stretch before the hard saronite stairs, Malthon urged his cohorts down, to meet them at the flats. Already this high up, and not even half of Overthane Ufrangsson's troops had begun ascending the mountain path.

King Malthon stopped his horse only a dozen yards before the Overthane's. He was forced still to look up to meet the vrykul's eyes, but he did not waver at the gaze, instead beginning by saying, "I see the banners are raised, and the horns seem silent. Do we fight as brothers, Overthane, or do we squabble as children?"

The thick lips split open to bare Ufrangsson's teeth. "Stepping on this "city" of cockroaches would be no more a squabble than squeezing an egg between my fingers."

"We spend our days dancing with Ymirjar. If you think believe your men measure up, come now and see how many of them remain in an attempt to siege us. It will be like swathing through the fields of Dragonflayers at Valgarde again." There was no doubt that word of that travesty had reached their ears here – the full might of King Ymiron's men marched from Utgarde Keep to the budding city and were wiped clean, with hardly any Alliance loss.

It had been their first exposure to the vrykul. They learned there that muskets couldn't penetrate the steely rib cages of vrykul, that attempts to scout and spy resulted only in death, and also connected the link between the Azotha and their forefathers, revealing the humans as vrykul descendants afflicted by the curse of flesh.

At Malthon's bold words, Ufrangsson leaned back on his steed and laughed. All of the nearby vrykul did. It was an unsavory moment, and Malthon hoped it was not a sign of hostility. When the Overthane settled, grinning stained teeth at Malthon, he nodded and said, "You will do, human. I will find my glory at your battle side, if you can make peace with the Ymirjar."

Not a few sighs of relief behind Malthon regarded the declaration. King Malthon himself, however, proceeded: "We have room for a thousand within the fortress here. The rest must camp among the hills or at the foot of the mountain. Our defenses there will be first in line for a Ymirjar incursion, and the matter will be settled within the week. For now, I would like to discuss your style of supply lines, military action, and traditions, so that we may not step on each others' feet."

Ufrangsson nodded. "My father could have made great use of a human like you, Fool King. I honor him by taking his place." Turning his head, he roared, "Blood Guard, into the keep! The rest of you rabble, make peace between your asses and snow!" Those immediately closest began to march forward, splitting around the Overthane. Malthon recognized them by oiled, shining armor and finely runed weapons.

"Make way!" Malthon ordered. "Captain, I want the stewards to show the vrykul their wings of the fortress. Have them open our caskets of mead for our allies."

"Sir!" the present captain shouted, and he turned to march back up the stairs. The other officers remained close to Malthon as the vrykul passed them on either side.

Overthane Ufrangsson approached Malthon then, bringing his flaming horse close. "Well, Fool King?" he greeted by mock. "Where shall we hold our council?"

XxX

Malthon still panted as he ripped his mace free. Pieces of bone and brain splattered from it, and red still dripped as he raised it to his shoulder, adding to its already painted look. The Ymirjar were retreating from combat, though they would be back for their dead shortly. Their voices were excited and boastful, even with their backs shone, as if leaving a victorious battle ground.

"Balinda?" he called between breaths. He struggled to find the strength to turn his body in full armor.

"I'm still here," her matronly voice hissed out. "Blast it."

He limped his way to her side, then ducked under her heavy arm to give her support. Balinda's breaths were light, shallow, and she hissed again at the movement. Her right hand was pressed firmly over a large hole in her armor, at her right side near the end of her rib cage. He remembered with great clarity the moment when a spear had taken her through, the silence from her as she cut the shaft with her sword, and the tenacity as she slew the wielder with the remaining portion still sticking from her.

The Light had already flickered from them both, too weak to maintain their blessings, but together, she and Malthon managed to weave a flash of Light to help her wound. The icy air seemed colder than usual as they hobbled together back towards their side. So many corpses, so few still standing.

In the far distance, the Jotunheim vrykul waited at the foot of the mountain, watching callously. A band of fifty reserve were already charging forward, joining those in Redeeming the fallen. No one was allowed the peace of death just yet. No one but the Ymirjar, who craved it with such hunger.

"There are more of them now," Balinda mentioned tightly.

Malthon had noticed. "They needed the reinforcements. We've felled over fifty of them now."

"And nearly half our men are stuck in the hospital after Redemption." Balinda coughed and groaned, then killed any complaining noise. Firmer, she said, "I fear they march us in whole now. We won't survive that."

Malthon was most surprised at how she was even talking to him, even if it was about their battles. Lately, Balinda had been the most distant of all his closer friends... if he could call her that. "I need to meet the Dragon. Only then can we end this stupid conflict."

"Does the Light tell you that?" she asked, still leaning most of her weight against him.

"You know-"

"Does your gut tell you that, then?" she cut in sharply, but then coughed again and stumbled. "Light, Malthon, I know you. It's the same blasted thing."

He smiled humorlessly beneath his own helmet. "I hope so, Balinda. I hope so... We need to make an offensive against them, to meet them on our terms."

Sir Richard appeared quickly before Malthon, recognizable by the exposed bones of his elbows before the white armband near his left shoulder. "My king, I can take her from you." Sir Marcanus was there too, sheathing his sword, and he agreed with Richard.

Balinda didn't move to transition her weight, and Malthon didn't let up his support. They ignored the bodyguards, who then fell in behind them, drawing their weapons again and facing the way the Ymirjar had departed.

The wounded woman said, "These are our terms, you lummox... Ah! Blasted...! We have our defenses here, the advantage, the support from stationary range... Leaving would be suicide."

"We must," he returned quietly, and this time Balinda said nothing to argue.

XxX

Overthane Ufrangsson had laughed. There had been nothing kind to the sound, nor to its meaning, and he called Malthon a child with only air between his ears, once the idea was proposed to their council.

"You think that success against skirmishes of fifty mean anything against striking their actual force? Smart men weather storms, not chase after them!" Ufrangsson told him, concerning Malthon's idea of marching to the Ymirjar.

Malthon was indifferent to the insult, peering down at the map of Icecrown. It showed their armies and defenses spread around the bottom of the Shadow Vault's pathway, and it showed the Ymirjar's camps, sitting near the mountain of Ymirheim. He told the vrykul, "The Dragon sits in his roost, watching us with lazy eyes, testing our resolve against his nearly unstoppable force. Just enough to tease us with their swords and spears, then out to celebrate their losses. We must turn this into our own game, our rules, and lure the Dragon onto the field. There, he will listen to reason... or he will fall."

Ufrangsson slowly shook his massive head, glancing briefly at the map. "A fool might praise your boldness. We are not fools here. Whomever will march to them will find only glorious deaths at Ymirjar blades. Are your men ready for Valhal, Fool King?"

Malthon did not know why he felt so determined for his plan. The Light told him nothing, answered his prayers only with strength, not with direction. He felt inside though that this was the only way he could proceed, even with the burden of the many lives that would be lost – a defeat out there would not allow them to Redeem the fallen.

His brothers and sisters told him nothing after the initial dissent. They looked to him, trusting him to lead them with the Light's own plan. Could they not see that for all his brightness, it was he that was lost here?

"I will take one hundred companions. The strongest of us, both paladin and death knight, and we will see what honor the Ymirjar return the numbers. They would take no pleasure in overwhelming us, find no glory in it. I will secure a duel with the Dragon if I am able."

Even Ufrangsson had no immediately reply, though he growled and turned away from their table. His two captains muttered to him, sounding both disgusted and troubled. Ufrangsson silenced them with a hiss.

"You will have my blade, King Malthon," a feminine voice began. Nearly everyone jolted when they realized it was Balinda who addressed him by his title. After a long moment of hesitation, Malthon nodded to her. His only thanks.

"Give me an hour, sir, and I have have a dozen of the finest death knights remaining to prepare a black guard for you," Sir Richard announced, and Malthon accepted him as well.

Sir Marcanus, the paladin twin of Richard, added, "And the white guard will be your right hand, my liege. I know stout men of the Light eager for the white band." He gestured to his armband, in the same place as Sir Richard's.

Commander Jake spoke up, his voice marked by its deepness and gruff tones, "If its Ymirjar we're hunting, I have a score still thirsty for their blood. Two dozen 7th Legion men that Lady Crowngarde brought from the south will fill any slots remaining, if there is need."

Lord Denell Goldwind pledged his own men from the Argent Tournament battery, while Commander Jayce Greylane and the Ironhawk brothers offered themselves. Jenn Stoutmantle would be sure to follow Balinda. It would be a whole slew of familiar faces, Malthon feared. Any life lost would be a dear companion.

"Tomorrow, we will march," Malthon told them. He looked to the vrykul Overthane, whom had agreed to their alliance. "If we fall out there, the remaining men are pledged to Overthane Ufrangsson for the purpose of combating the Skinless. They are a matter far more important than squabbles between us and the Ymirjar."

If the Overthane was surprised, he hid it well. With one ground-rumbling step, he was back to the map, peering down with cold and calculating eyes. Without looking to Malthon or the other silent 'small ones,' he told them, "I will hold your men to the plans you have outlined yourself, Fool King, but if the Ymirjar persist after your defeat, I cannot shelter them."

It was a tight corner that they were in, yet Malthon felt no trepidation. The Light comforted him, even in its silence. The lurking dread of the Skinless had lessened since the Ymirjar settled in the valley and had begun to deal with any that tried pressing forward.

XxX

Surprising the Ymirjar was a concept long since abandoned by the Alliance and Argent Crusade. They knew it was an impossibility from direct confrontation, and from the siege they had laid upon Ymirheim, only to be utterly destroyed for. So when King Malthon's cavalry charge came roaring over the last hill towards the closest Ymirjar camp, they expected to see the horde already banging weapons into shields with delighted cheer.

A small force of paladins squeezed beside King Malthon and his charger Crown. It had been a wordless agreement, yet they hoped to recreate the same effect they had against the Skinless pit lord at the Shadow Vault. Each of them – King Malthon, Lady Crowngarde, Lord Commander Goldwind, Bardin Ironhawk – called the Light to themselves, building up its awesome power in their bodies, letting the strange energy pull at the world around them. They drew and drew it upon themselves, until their powers pooled into one impression upon the world, a pull that was nothing physical, and when they felt it happen, Malthon raised his mace in cheer.

Around them, the one hundred companions carried the shout, and many other paladins offered their own strengths, adding to the pool like clinging droplets of water. Lord Terrichon, Jayce, and Jenn Stoutmantle shone the brightest of them, also pressing closer to Malthon.

Malthon did not know what the Ymirjar saw then from his forces as they galloped forward, bursting with Light, but it disturbed the warriors far more than any of the losses in the skirmishes before. Their lines turned to each other in quick questions, but their attention and weapons never wavered from their direction.

In the final paces of the charge, the Ymirjar hunters released their bows, and warriors threw spears, and elemental workers shattered the earth beneath them. Malthon did not perceive any damage to his side, and he raised his hand to unleash a blast of Holy Shock. He noticed with some surprise that those with him did as well, nearly synchronized.

The porcupine wall of the Ymirjar line shattered, completely washed away, from their tremendous release of holy energy. Their chargers and deathchargers burst through unchallenged, until they reached the wounded and dazed warriors beyond. That was where the battle truly began, Malthon suspected, though their pocket of Light did not disassemble easily.

Nearly a dozen more Ymirjar had perished before Crown was fatally wounded, the vrykul burned away in righteous fire or ripped apart from their weapons and the holy power therein. The faithful steed dissolved back into the realm of Light that he resided in, leaving Malthon on the ground below all of the towering giants of steel and death.

"The Fool King!" one howled, throwing his head back to bellow furiously, and then he jumped towards Malthon with axes raised. Already, the Lordaeron crest of the aegis had been replaced by lines of white light, and the axes scraped its long flat length to no avail.

The vrykul landed and spun, ready to reengage, but a mounted knight struck his back with a sword. The white armband on his left arm identified him as one of Malthon's guards, specifically a white guard. A second knight, this one in saronite armor, trampled forward and also swung a hulking claymore up the Ymirjar's back as he tried to address the first attacker.

"Lo, and behold!" a triumphant voice cried out, and Malthon recognized Sir Richard and Sir Marcanus working in unison to bring down the attacker.

Turning, Malthon left them to their opponent and began to run forward, gathering Light to his mace. Streaks of white light followed its path as he charged, until the first vrykul accepted his challenge. The giant's massive polearm was split in half, the mace cracking the wood thick as a supporting column, and the Ymirjar hooted at it, discarding the wood length to strike with the shorter head piece.

Three blows of the mace connected next, as Malthon slipped through the strikes of the blade, and the Ymirjar fell to the snow without rising, either dead or merely unconscious. He couldn't tell with their thick skulls.

Malthon saw two more stomping towards him, grinning wickedly, but before they could meet, a humanoid shape distinctly not human leapt into the two vrykul with savage furosity. It thrashed and scratched and bit and clawed, all while swinging around a thick, runed claymore. The three went down in a heap of vicious sounds and flailing limbs.

"Ah, dear Goffren," an amused voice mentioned from just behind Malthon. He recognized Sir Richard. "The worgen curse of Arugal has its uses. He makes an entertaining fiend!"

"Fight on!" Malthon roared, and both Richard and Marcanus appeared at either side, forming a trio with him in their progression forward. At the next charge of vrykul, Malthon hurled his shield at them, and the light around it gained a brighter hue as it seemed to actively seek out the foes. It crashed into each before rebounding back swiftly, yet entirely harmless – and seemingly weightless – to Malthon as he caught it and fixed it back to his wrist.

Each found themselves a Ymirjar opponent then as more mobbed for the King. Malthon found himself locked in a parry, between a boulder-sized mace head and his shield, only to stumbled forward against the Ymirjar when an unstoppable force collided with his back.

He heard the battle cry of Balinda screaming in his ear as she shoved him forward, her shield against his back, and together they knocked back the Ymirjar opponent, and Malthon's mace claimed first knee, then stomach and iron helmet while the opponent was out of balance. There was a crack and spurt of blood from the face as the mace hit the nose.

At the first free step, Balinda broke free of Malthon's back, turning like a swan with her sword in hand, and she thrust her blade in and out of a Ymirjar's stomach before it could react. Though black blood followed the wound, the blue-skinned vrykul showed no sign of it in his response.

Above, Malthon had seen glimpses of the dark harpies called val'kyr. They had been shouting since the beginning of the battle, yet it was only then Malthon realized it wasn't battle plans they were levying:

"Dane Beolvor the Mighty has been felled by the White Lady! Harken the Songs of Death, o' Ymirjar, for your brother has entered Valhal!"

"Gretild the Iron-Shot has fallen to the Elven Swan! Harken the Songs of Death, o' Ymirjar, for your sister...!"

Though Malthon's bodyguards struggled to keep apace with their king, only Balinda Crowngarde managed the spot at his side, weaving death and cutting destruction upon any who stood before her. Malthon was not so neat in his battle, crushing his opponents limb by limb before claiming a critical strike upon them.

"Lady Crowngarde!" a small, dwarvish voice screamed out, and like a cannon ball, Jenn Stoutmantle exploded into the field of vrykul, claiming feet and shins with her axe. She covered Balinda's flank with her shield, true to her name. Malthon knew his old friend was in good hands.

The pulse of the battle changed. Malthon noticed it in the lull between opponents, that the Ymirjar had begun chanting. "Dragon! ...Dragon! ...Dragon!"

Malthon developed a grim smile as he waited. He was here; the Dragon had been stirred from his lair. It was not difficult to spot the human Ymirjar either; he stood well below the others, yet his presence sent them into wide breadth around him. Light, but though the human was smaller than the vrykul, he had to be closer to seven feet than six. He filled his armor no differently than Bardin, like an orc.

The armor was a solid body of steel, smooth and flawless, with wide shoulders of iron spikes. The helmet was of vrykul make, though human size, with its large horns and sockets for eyes. It stretched just below the nose, revealing a wide mouth with thick lips between a dark beard shorter than Malthon's own, and the leather strap tucked firmly under the squared jaw.

Most attracting was the Dragon's Fangs. Two swords as long as Malthon was tall, nearly a foot side each. The silver blades glowed with obvious enchantments, the blade dancing with runes. Gold, ornate guards shaped like sinewy dragons ended the blade, and the hilts were tightly wrapped in dark leather at a length meant for either a vrykul hand or two human ones. The Dragon seemed to care for neither criteria.

Dark, nearly black, eyes remained fixed on Malthon in the Dragon's approach. White teeth gleamed in their wolfish smile, and the lust for blood was obvious. Malthon had seen the look in enough paladins of late, and he hated it, though he could do nothing for those who craved bloodshed.

"Watch my flanks," King Malthon called to his small company. The other companions still warred around them, among the sea of ringing metal and hoarse shouts.

Balinda's sharp voice demanded, "You better bloody well not die here, Malthon! You hear me?"

That was the kindest thing she'd said of him in years; he could have kissed her for it. Figuratively, of course.

The last two Ymirjar split apart to emit the Dragon to Malthon. At nearly the same moment, both Sir Richard and Sir Marcanus jumped before him, weapons and shield raised at the ready. Malthon tried to call them back, but the Dragon did not wait. He charged forward swords ready.

Malthon watched helplessly as in only a few easy strokes, his two bodyguards were slapped aside, unable to parry the swords, and then dispatched first one, then the other. Richard lost his sword arm, then was skewered to the ground. Marcanus kept his shield high, holding briefly, but then the Dragon took both legs in a low sweep, and the man fell like a tree in a spray of blood.

"They aren't who I want, Fool King!" the Dragon shouted, pacing to the side, the eyes of his helmet fixed on Malthon. His body was so lax, so graceful in its motions with armor on, like a panther. Light, but Dragon was a rightful title, he realized. This battle would test Malthon's body and strength.

Malthon stepped forward, over the groaning bodies of his two defenders, feeling righteous fury raging inside his chest. In a flat voice, he demanded, "And what is it you want, Dragon? How do I end this stupid conflict?"

"You don't end this. We do," the man told Malthon, shrugging once. He stopped pacing and faced Malthon. "For what we want, it is simple. We will break you, who dares to claim a title over the people of Northrend."

The warrior moved then, charging rapidly and striking with both swords in an overwhelming blow. Malthon caught it easily on his shield of Light, holding his place, and leaning in, he growled, "You will find we do not break easy!" He shoved back, finding no budge of the iron-clad human. Were those... braces?

Like a snake, the Dragon eased just the smallest tad on their push, then with the extra room, exploded into action again, bringing the left sword around to clip Malthon's right side – a clip from a sword like that would very well eviscerate him. Malthon caught it on his mace.

Calling upon the Light, Malthon had a Hammer of Justice crash into the warrior's helmet, immediately stunning him with supernatural efficiency. Malthon stepped back, demanding more into his mace for one finishing swing, and with streaks of brilliant Light trailing his weapon, he hit the stumbling warrior with a sound like a gong, and he flew backwards with a fresh dent in the oiled breastplate.

The Dragon scrambled to his feet with a strange sound. Malthon realized it was laughter. "Now this will be fun!" the human Ymirjar shouted, already twinged with battle lust and mounting fury. He ran back to Malthon, and rather than swinging, he slammed into him with sword flats, sending Malthon stumbling back, urged by the Light where the block the following strikes.

It was not a clean battle, not organized. The vrykul had a fighting style that was very efficient in open fields like this. Sword forward, shield up, made it impossible to overcome them straight forward. Likewise, they trained how to overcome shields, moving to the right in pattern, side-stepping until they could score hits past the range of their shields, hitting shoulder, hip, and side. No warrior sought to kill in one blow, instead weakening and wounding until an advantage, an execution, presented itself to them.

This Dragon sometimes followed that in their duel, holding his left sword angled for parries, with the right forward until he was swinging. But when carrying that much weight, and bearing that much strength, momentum played too large of a roll for the human, and the style broke to give him the extra second for overwhelming blows... and the effectiveness of those often outdid even the vrykul efficiency.

Malthon turned himself over to the Light. He couldn't win this with churchyard training, nor with his years of experience fighting weak-bodied Scourge with all-consuming flames. He was not skilled enough to beat warriors in arms; duels with Balinda told him that. But while the arms favored her, the Light favored him in ways he felt very blessed for.

No longer did he watch the oversized swords or tree-trunk arms. The Light moved his shield and legs into place always, never letting them touch him. He always knew exactly how to counter the strength of the blows, to keep his center of balance, how to brace his body. His mace no longer swung like a club. It moved with cutting precision, past skilled guards and positions, chasing like a hornet after a grumpy bear.

The most common strike to Malthon now was a thrust of his weapon. It felt strange, weak in its angle, yet this warrior was helpless to its bash against elbow, shoulder, and wrist. The thick, iron braces absorbed nearly all of the damage, and the shell of steel dented only from the strongest of his Light-blessed attacks, yet the warrior was left constantly unsteady, unable to build his precious momentum.

As their battle progressed, the warrior grew more and more enraged. Malthon could see it building in his face, see the strength building in his actions. Eventually, he could even feel the weight of blocking attacks with his shield of Light – even Ymirjar attacks felt like simple gusts. When he saw the grin that blossomed on the warrior's face, he feared he might have been too late.

Abruptly, this wrath-taken warrior broke from their strangled melee, then struck with a speed that made no sense. In hardly an eye-blink, Malthon had to thrust his shield to the far left, and he staggered forward at the ungodly blow that it defended against. He could feel the bite of the leather straps into his armored wrists and worried they would snap if blows like that continued.

They did.

Once, Malthon managed to thrust the mace into air, and the warrior appeared there in another swift rush of movement, colliding with it against the helmet. It broke the warrior's concentration, but he only howled in fury and struck harder, blood spilling from his nose.

It ended with one final blow. The warrior stopped three paces away, then threw his swords behind him and stepped forward, building every bit of momentum he could into one last strike under influence of his supernatural speed and strength. Malthon, curiously, felt only a sunburst of satisfaction from the Light within him, and he stepped forward into the path of the blow.

The shield rose, and it pooled with even more Light, glowing like the sun itself as the swords came for Malthon. They hit the wall of Light... and every bit of the energy was rebounded back with equal force.

The Dragon flew back, tumbling feet over head and roaring out in shock and rage. He hit the ground without grace, helmet first, and rolled with little control into a Ymirjar trying to reach the battle around their clearing. The warrior grunted in anger and kicked the apparent bundle away from his foot, and the Dragon landed farther forward, prone. Strangely, he held his monster swords through it all.

Many of the vrykul around them stopped at that, staring with shock at the fallen Dragon. The human began to rise, groaning, and he settled to his knees. Blood dripped from his face and beard, down his breastplate, and his eyes seemed red with their rage. He settled back onto his heels, then slowly stood from his squat, spitting blood from his mouth.

Looking, they both could see fractures running down the armor of the Dragon's arms. The bracers of his elbows must have preserved the limbs, for they were now rent apart in spokes of iron, yet the armor appeared about to shatter. The Dragon shook his head at it, impaled his swords in the snow, then removed his helmet.

It was a very human face under that helmet. The features were bold and strong, much like the vrykul around them, but the eyes were so clearly human, and even a face roughly cut from granite – like his – was still that of a human man. The beard remained well groomed, where not coated in blood. Atop his head, the hair was cropped short for helmet wear, unlike Malthon's.

Spitting another mouthful of blood and wiping his nose, the Dragon announced, bewildered, "A fucking... mirror shield? What in Hela's name...?"

Malthon had no idea either. He let the Light work through him. He did not admit as much, saying, "Peace, Ymirjar! We seek war against the Skinless invaders from the east, not subjugation of the vrykul! Join us in battle, or return peacefully to your home of Ymirheim!"

The Dragon tied his helmet to his waist, where two skulls bounced – Malthon hadn't noticed them in their battle, but nearly every Ymirjar had some – and began to pace to the side, wrenching the swords free to walk with them.

"We have finished our test of you," the Dragon continued, sounding suspicious. "We will return to Ymirheim for now... But, not without a little reward for my efforts!"

There was no warning as one of the massive swords took a warrior in the head, and the paladin collapsed in a heap. Malthon's companions, still many in their numbers, jumped at the attack and resumed their battle against the Ymirjar. Malthon stepped forward, confused, as the Dragon put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, then bent to retrieve the fallen warrior, throwing her over his shoulder.

Her. Malthon opened his eyes to the soldier, seeing then the blue cape, the inscriptions hanging from the armor, the broadsword and Lordaeron-crested aegis. The Dragon had captured _Balinda?_

Before he could start forward, a draconian roar from just above halted him, and a green-scaled proto-drake landed between him and the Dragon. "Coralhide," the Dragon greeted, patting the drake, before mounting still with Balinda over his shoulder. He took the reigns.

"No!" Malthon roared, and he cast a powerful blast of Holy Shock at the drake. The scales deflected the worst of it, and the beast lurched into the air with an annoyed squawk. "Balinda!" he called after them, but the sister was unconscious. The Light would have protected her, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it!

The Dragon left the battlefield, and the Ymirjar retreated back, laughing to themselves as they easily deflected the pursuing strikes of the companions. The val'kyr in the sky also turned back to their city. One in particular, with white wings, looked back to them, then departed at the tail end of the harpy horde.

"Balinda!" Malthon called, desperate, yet it was too late. Lord Goldwind, Arvin Ironhawk, and Jayce appeared at his side, but they could offer him nothing.

Balinda had been captured by the Ymirjar.

* * *

AN: As I mentioned before, I'm trying to keep the chapters more successive by subject rather than jump around between characters, for the ease of the readers. So for now, we are on the brief Malthon/Drekthac arc, where it goes Drek, Malth, Drek (more accurately Balinda), and then Malth meeting Drek. That composes the whole first half of the Second Stage, and the second half will be Sin and Thomas, in their respective fields.

Apart from that, I know what to expect review-wise from a story with only 30-50 readers, but I'd like to hear more on how things are on your ends. Are things still interesting, is there anything you'd like to see more/less of? Do you have the old god all figured out? Etc.

Thanks for reading,

-Sub


	19. Chapter 17: Trials of the White Lady

Chapter 17

_Trials of the White Lady_

* * *

X Ymirjar X

"Shush, she is waking!"

Balinda's brows dropped at the harsh whisper. A woman, a loud one at that, or very close though she couldn't feel the breath. Her eyes remained shut, but Balinda strained to remember what had happened to her. Malthon... Malthon something. There had been Ymirjar involved. A skirmish? Somewhere?

He blankets felt stiff and heavy, scratching her skin where it touched. She was naked. Why was she naked? She needed her armor, her weapons, to be ready to rally at the Light's call. She couldn't be vulnerable like this anymore. Never again would she be vulnerable...

Who was in her room? Balinda's head ached, pounding like a drum. Her mind remained in a heavy fog, unable to pick up from its slow drudge. Isn't that how it felt to wake up from unconsciousness? Had she fallen in battle?

Her eyes blinked open and closed. She saw nothing but bright light and too many blurs. After a moment, she tried again, straining to hold them open, and colors gained a more distinct shape. Nothing sensible, however.

"Gods, how hard did you hit this one?" a feminine voice asked. It sounded amused, but the question was sincere. Balinda wondered, _Hit who?_

"Near a hundred pounds of metal in a quick clock. Wasn't taking any chances on this one," a deeper, masculine voice returned. His sounded quieter, however. Like it was further away.

"I cannot see," Balinda mumble around a numb tongue. Her eyes refused to clear any further. Just blotches of light and color.

There was a pause, then a shuffling. A second white blotch joined the first, then it consumed the most of her vision. A moment later, she hissed at the feeling of shadows invading her body, wrapping her aches in their cool touch. Grudgingly, she admitted the cool touch was soothing.

The whiteness before her eyes cleared, focusing at once as it moved away – a massive white hand. Behind it were three faces, two pale and illuminated like the moon, and one a human with a beard too dark to be Malthon's. One white-faced woman, with her eyes covered in a blank mask, said in a scratchy voice, "Brain trauma is a difficult to mend, but that should clear the last of it. You bruised the back, the vision end, my liege."

Balinda stared for a moment longer. Memories seeped in, flashes of fighting, of watching Malthon engage a powerful foe. She remembered him walking near her in a lull, all of them watching, and then... blackness. She pieced it together as she recognized the val'kyr women and her current state.

Captured. By the Ymirjar.

Balinda cooled her expression and tightened her resolve. She'd show them no weakness. She was naked; the shock didn't show on her face, but she was naked and unarmed, bare but for a blanket before the enemy. She needed to tread on careful ground lest they kill her. Glancing again at the human among them, she added, _Or something worse._ The Light pooled into her body, comforting her.

Seeing her intent look, one of the val'kyr, black of hair and white of wing, nodded to herself. "We will leave you to your rewards, my liege. Try not to break her, for she is pretty."

The human nodded thoughtlessly as he sipped from an iron mug. The two val'kyr turned and left the room, down a short ramp and then out a large wooden door. It was warm in this longhouse, lit by simple braziers, and though sparsely decorated, the things of value were displayed with care, including the crossed swords and suit of heavy, heavy armor.

She recognized the Dragon by that, though his race was enough. This was the one Malthon had been battling, and she was his captive. War prize for bartering submission? Or something far more carnal? She looked back to the large man, seeing him reclined in a human-sized chair in nothing more than red scaled pants, peering into his cup.

Balinda tested her wrists. Something warped around them, something hard but not too cold under the blanket. Movement produced a rattle. Iron chains. Her ankles were wrapped by similar hardness, and she assumed them bound as well. Light knew she was in a difficult spot with this Dragon, and Light knew what the Ymirjar men, any vrykul really, did with their female captives.

No fear. Only righteous fury.

"On the field of battle," the human said, staring into his cup still, "you are called the White Lady. You are a bringer of graceful death, a lady of the sword, streaked with Light and trailing brilliant motes. Aptly named, and I have been given much honor for taking you war prize."

Balinda said nothing. Waiting. He still did not move or look to her, but he continued to speak: "You are my slave now, White Lady. Attempt to escape will prove quite fruitless, and you will be punished for it... harshly, and to the amusement of myself and my brothers. My two handmaidens will be keeping tabs on you, when their services are not otherwise required. Treat them well, for they are not as cruel as most vrykul can be."

He glanced at her, his dark eyes shadowed by the angle. Seeing her listening, he returned to the cup. "My name is Baelin Drekthac, also called the Dragon, and my clan is the Ymirjar. You may introduce yourself at your own choosing, but first I have questions for you."

"You are a fool for attacking the armies of King Malthon, when worse threats lurk beyond your walls," Balinda spat at him. She did not know whether to answer questions about their defenses, fortifications, and leadership because it was insignificant, or to reject him to add hardship to his dealings with her.

The man, Baelin, grunted a short laugh, then took another drink from his mug. Instead of rising to her words, he asked simply, "Are you the Fool King's woman?"

Balinda thought about lying to him, to secure a place of value she might otherwise not have. The Light chastised her for the thought, and she withheld a sigh. "I am not. I am Lady Balinda Crowngarde, royal defender and prime delegate of the King."

"Balinda," he repeated, seeming to roll the word around his mouth. He nodded. "It sounds nice. You may call me Drekthac. So if not the king's woman, then are you a wife of another? Pledged to someone still alive, waiting upon your return? You carry no ring, but is it within a lock box at your old bedside?"

"I am a maiden," she declared, with only a hint of dread. She did not like the sound of the truth to a man such as this. Her fears were confirmed as he stood and tipped his head back to finish his mug, then faced her with those awful eyes.

"Then you are no longer to call yourself such, Balinda Crowngarde. You are mine now, in all ways. I'd tell you not to fight your new state, but your choices are your own. My goal is not to break you, but you cannot overcome my strength."

Tension crept over Balinda's body as she watched him unbuckle his belt, then step out of pants in the final steps to the bed she was trapped on. Drekthac appeared as a shaggy wolf to her, one aged with battle and conflict. His body was thick and strong, and she could make out what seemed like countless scars over him, visible even through his body hair. His face was wild, feral, and predatory, and his intent with her was full-mast obvious.

One knee came to the edge of the vrykul-sized bed. Balinda waited with balled fists and tensed legs, desperately wishing she could keep the blanket between them. His hand came to it, however, and her knee tucked under her.

Drekthac yanked the blanket away from her body, unshielding her nudity to his eyes. But she did not give him the chance to leer, to climb atop her and claim what he thought was his. In the same instant, she used what leverage she could with the chains to plant her feet and leap up. The stiffness of the vrykul bed gave her stability, and though her feet could part no further than a few inches, she did not plan on grace.

The Judgment and Retribution of the Light were her talents, her burdens. She judged his behavior vile, sickly and repulsive to the Light, and it granted her the ability to serve its verdict. Her elbow, aiming for his jaw, was caught in a callused and bumpy palm, and he caught her weight easily.

It was as planned. Balinda reared her head back and smashed it into his nose, and his body shuddered in shock, muscles loosening their tension and strength. Balinda twirled on her heels to build the momentum to strike the right side of his jaw with her left elbow, then jumped with both feet, leaning back and knees tucked, to explode a double kick directly under his jaw.

The human warrior dropped like a sack of potatoes, left propped against the side of the bed awkwardly. Balinda scrambled forward and looped the chain of her cuffs around his neck, pulling sharply. It wasn't to choke him out, and indeed he recovered quickly and grabbed both of her slender wrists with his large, masculine hands.

Balinda felt a surge of satisfaction when he clamped down with a grip like a titan. She jumped forward, again keeping her legs tight together due to the short slack, and pulled with all the might the Light blessed her with. The warrior was pulled forward with her, and she tucked low in her landing, pulling hard, and she sent him over her head, despite his vastly superior size and strength, to crash onto the wooden ramp and tumble down the steps.

A few lady-like hops later, Balinda cupped her fists together into one unit and clubbed his head as he tried to find which way was up. Like her, his strength was only human outside of his enchanted armors, and the signs of dazing and flickering consciousness were clear from his eyes.

Balinda got behind him and caught his neck in the chains again. She couldn't kill this man – the Light's verdict was not execution – so she dragged him backwards via hops to the door of the longhouse, opened the wooden bar with her shoulder, then flung the naked man out into the snow with her hold over the chains. Swiftly, she shut and barred the doors again, also throwing down the iron latch, then dusted her hands, giving a righteous sniff in the direction the Dragon had fallen.

What kind of fool tried raping a _Crowngarde?_ Let alone _capturing_ one?

XxX

Drekthac wrestled in the slush pits with several Ymirjar men. He did it to try new things (not because a 130 pound, chained up woman had beaten him and locked him from his own home), and because he wanted to be certain he hadn't lost his touch in unarmed combat. After six victories, he had no excuse for what in _Hela's flying fuck_ had happened in his own _gods damned, crow begotten_ home.

It also helped the slush wrestling was an event always done nude (hence his explanations to his clansmen). He found a strange liking to it, though he did prefer combat of steel. The icy slush was a shock that cooled ones temper in the heat of battle. It left their naked bodies slick and difficult to grapple with, and throws were clumsy to the untrained and unfamiliar.

But he had to wonder who in their right mind invited women to such events? No self-respecting warrior could rightfully grasp, grapple, and strain over a slicked, nimble-bodied woman flush naked with him. It was a handicap of the worst kind.

The crowds it drew for two women wrestling were impressive.

After the matches, he refused Maldrid's offer of healing for his bruises. While he appreciated the touch for fatal or lasting wounds, it was coddling to not let a man live with any form of pain. The heated water for clearing the slush and grime felt heavenly on his body, and in watching the nearby val'kyr, he scheduled a long bath with Freydis in the near future. He couldn't do such in public – at least, it was more trouble than it was worth.

They had returned home only yesterday from the quick bouts with the Fool King. The small one armies scrambled madly since then, but they did not possess the stones to siege their walls. A pity, that, but ultimately a smart move. The Fool King himself was reported as being enraged. This Balinda girl might call herself only his defender, but she certainly held... value to the king.

Still, the female warriors washing off near him held him distracted, vrykul and frost vrykul alike, and he looked to Maldrid nearby. She had said nothing about his appearing outside his home, when he should have been with his new captive. Freydis, however, had been summoned back into the Val'kyr Halls, as the Arbiters of Valhalas were called together.

Recently denied and now teased by the women, he considered Maldrid – not for the first time – for pleasure. In their fifteen or twenty days together, they had yet to move their relationship to anything intimate. He had always taken Freydis to bed, as she was always available, though she had promised him he wouldn't be disappointed by a true handmaiden's service. Maldrid did not offer, expecting him to ask if he wanted her.

He had nothing against the val'kyr, and she had proven very loyal. He just had difficulty coming to terms with a handmaiden who wasn't Freydis, which was far from his envisioning of Ymirheim. He felt like any day Maldrid would just be gone out of his life, so hardly significant, but if he took her to bed, to him it seemed as something closer than the usual nightly catch, thus wouldn't be fair.

Idly scrubbing himself, he concluded he might as well accept her, bed her, and keep her as a second woman. Far more desirable than Hilda.

Two val'kyr stared at him in passing, whispering to themselves, and his frown outdid any heat of embarrassment. That fucking snake, Hilda...

The thought sent sensations, memories, pouring through his head. Drekthac growled, still cursing the spell that damned woman had woven over him. And the last thing he needed was a thousand glimpses of his time fucking Hilda! He still had not, and _would not,_ return to accept her name in service.

"Maldrid," he called out lazily, but inside his frustration was mounting. The black-winged val'kyr approached, curious. "Got a private room somewhere?"

"My liege?" Maldrid started, and her wings stuttered their slow flapping. Her dark lips twitched towards a smile, but she arrested it quickly, remaining dispassionate and collected. "Your home, should you wish, is my only room of privacy. I have only public quarters at the Val'kyr Halls."

Drekthac grunted, dismissing the idea. He had been public enough on _that_ subject, thanks to Hilda. Gods damn, blighted-!

He glanced over to his handmaiden, leering over her intently. A shame Maldrid wore the val'kyr mask, hiding whatever challenging look her eyes might gain – he had yet to see Maldrid's eyes, he realized – but the black-winged woman crossed her hands beneath her clothed breasts and waited, unreadable.

"See if you can't find us a room, Maldrid," he drawled, laying out his intent further. He tossed the bathing rag back into the bucket, sloshing the warm water, and stood up, nude. "I'm not having any repeats like with Hilda."

Though he couldn't tell her expression, her smile and throaty tone were enough, "You have nothing to be ashamed of, my liege. And every val'kyr knows it; those sensations were genuine."

That was gods damn accurate, that every blighted val'kyr knew of it. May Hela take Hilda in the black of Witching Hour! Drekthac discovered from Freydis that the val'kyr temptress had apparently broadcasted their entire tumble – every grunt, sigh, scream, and orgasm – to all of the val'kyr of Ymirheim. Not just the visuals but the sensations too, everything that Hilda did, felt, and saw. She made their sex the most public event in Ymirheim!

"I'm not a fucking spectacle," he growled, low, then faced the direction of his home. "I have something to take care of in the meanwhile."

XxX

Given the choice of knocking to enter his locked home, Drekthac braced himself and smashed the thick hinges in, then ripped the whole vrykul-sized door from the frame and tossed it behind him. He crossed the threshold pulling a thick splinter from his palm, looking to spot the one still inside.

The White Lady, Balinda Crowngarde, sat in the human sized chair with her arms crossed before her. Her expression was expectant and smoothed of emotion, apart from the raised eyebrow at his entrance. She had gone into his clothes drawers, he saw, noticing his own simple linen shirt and worn breeches, buckled tight to her slender shape. The chains of her cuffs had been broken, though her shackles remained upon her wrists and ankles.

"Welcome home, my liege," was the dry greeting from her. Her lips seemed to quirk at his state of dress, yet so somber was she that he felt it only a trick of the light.

He blew out his nostrils, sniffing dismissively, as he made for his drake-skin vest and leggings. "I see the Fool King chose his woman well, Lady Eyenhart."

It was a barbed comment, testing her response, yet the paladin slave gave no rise, beyond following him with her eyes as he passed her. As he recovered his pants, she did ask with continued indifference, "Not going to try again?"

"Only a fool mounts a stallion still wild. I had mistaken this one for a pony."

"So you will try to break me in? Tame me?" she asked coolly.

Drekthac smiled to himself, facing away from her, as he got his vest around his arms. "Break the King's woman? No, not if we expect to use them to fight the darklings." He faced her again, walking over.

This woman was a curious one. Her churning thoughts were visible on that pensive face. How many questions did she wish to ask? How many answers did she think she could pull from him, and when would she try?

As he approached, she peered back into his eyes with orbs of steely grey and demanded, "How many women have you raped?"

Drekthac thought to amuse her. This one would not take to submission easy, and he felt it wasn't worth the effort to enforce it all at once. Besides, how long had it been since he interacted with his fellow humans?

"How many homes have I broken into and taken a woman before her dying or dead husband? None. I wouldn't bed a taken woman, nor kill to take one, hence my opening questions, Lady Eyenhart."

"How noble," she snorted, arms still crossed, "but it does not answer my question. How many?"

"Why?" he asked instead. He turned from her to find his cup and casket of mead. After pouring for himself, he paused and added a second, then returned to offer it to her. He didn't watch to see if she decided to drank it, instead taking his own large drink.

"I'm deciding whether to kill you or not."

Drekthac snorted into his mug, almost spitting everything back out, but he forced it down in time to laugh. With a bright face and wide smile, he told her, "Such is not as easy as you think, paladin. If you think earlier is a sign of who will wear the pants here, I will welcome shattering your hubris."

"Answer." The repetition was flat.

He took his time drinking his mead, then shrugged and admitted, "I suppose you'd be the first."

Balinda watched him for a hard second, then slowly nodded to herself. "Lucky you." Drekthac grinned and found himself a second chair.

"I enjoy the very black and white world you paladins live in. So clean and righteous, always able to sleep well on your ideals," he told her. His mind screamed forth memories of black days, clawing through ceaseless hordes of blood-enraged orcs, breaking into villages and camps. The screams that followed as teams of soldiers swarmed into rugged homes. Women fighting as strong as men, pulled by their hair, him watched as their tusks were broken and their clothes were stripped.

The Blackrock War shaped much of who Drekthac was, he knew. The end of it had left a void in him that could never be filled. Not by retirement, not by modern Alliance military, not by tavern hopping and women laying, not by even the most decrepit gladiatorial arena. Only the vrykul had ended that hollow emptiness inside him.

Despite his last words to Balinda, he had seen what the Blackwar War had done to the holy Knights of the Silver Hand. None had come out clean; some had even lost the ability to see and touch the Light.

When Balinda said nothing, he continued, "The women left behind after their men are slaughtered and their towns burned... do you think leaving them is merciful? That stranding them to die alone is just?" Her eyes narrowed at him, while Drekthac threw his elbows over the back of his chair to rest them. "The Light knows I've never called myself right or just – I won't make excuses – but there is an act of mercy in taking those women of the enemy. How you treat them following is the reflection of your character, and that is where your judgments better reside."

There was a haughty air to her at the notion of judgment, but she did not add snarky input, saying, "Go on."

"Mmm?" Drekthac asked as he finished his mug. "What is there to say? Slavers hold action, brothels add goods, some throw them into pits to die against dogs or other slaves. I'd call that bad character. But say one soldier takes a woman for his own. He gives the slave home, feeds her, dresses her. There are obligations, and if he holds to them, I call that good character. Service is expected in return, in bedroom or out hardly matters because she belongs to him now. A captive won't know a husband or another man apart from her master."

"So that's how you justify it to yourself?" Balinda asked, unimpressed.

Drekthac raised an eyebrow at her. "Are you expecting fairytale romances, darlin'? It's damn obvious why a man would want to take a woman as slave. She becomes his property and a measure of his greatness, depending on the victory. What I am saying, however, is that he can otherwise treat her well. There's a difference between those who leave slaves chained with the dogs until they stumble over for a fucking and those who do right by them."

"Remind me where you're doing right by me again."

"You?" Drekthac laughed suddenly. "Darlin', I'm only telling you something I just remembered from before. The mumbles of a drunk. The Dragon captured the White Lady. She is his slave. That's what matters here. And I have nothing against taking fuck prize of a slave, excepting her taken by another, like yourself, Lady Eyenhart – and that's just preference. So judge me as you want, but you paladins won't fit in vrykul culture. Your only freedom now is your freedom of self, that's my only gift to you."

The woman appeared cross. It made Drekthac smile wider. "The only accuracy there seems to be your drunkenness," she accused shrewdly.

"I like your fight, spitfire," he told her. "You are allowed it. We'll see what the next few days will bring, but I advise you to realize an illusion of respect is in your best interest. My woman will not tolerate your cheek as I might." Balinda only regarded him with continued disdain.

XxX

In the days following Balinda's detainment, she came to learn much of the Ymirjar culture. The people were so proud, she knew, but the magnitude of witnessing it first-hand opened her eyes to it. The warriors did not just display it and hurt those that sought to damage it; they pursuit it in all ways. Pride was their cornerstone of society.

It invoked debts, it superseded conflicts. It led men to war and peace, to challenge and re-challenge. Men and women both _grew_ from their pride, rather than fall stagnant, as it urged them to learn and do more, to become even better in every way. Tempered by honor, these people expanded in ways even humans did not by being so blighted _proud._ And that made their heads even _bigger._

It was an insufferable chain to Balinda, but she grudgingly accepted its success.

The vrykul also had another way that got under her skin. They lived in anarchy, without a single regard to consequences. Kill a man, and he was brought back. Take his things, and you could win it in a duel. Take a woman, and if she could not fight her aggressor off, she deserved it. Worse was that here, women raped men. Balinda hadn't quite understood how that was done, until Drekthac had explained to her the case of Gerilda and Beodar.

Yet the culture thrived despite the lawless peoples and them exploiting the system at all chances. Honor sat on an unnamed throne here. There were things the warriors did not do here, because of pride and honor. What Ymirjar poisoned the food of a rival to kill him, rather than split his head like a log? She had asked the punishment if a man raped a married Ymirjar woman, and Drekthac had said it would not happen, seeming confused.

She insisted, proposing a "what if," and he had asked his historian-guide (she couldn't understand the relationship) named Maldrid. The val'kyr reported that the only time that had happened, knowing both the year and names involved, the assailant had been nailed upon their wall, stripped from the clan, and slain and revived each day for twenty years before feeding his body to the worgs, rather than burning on a pyre.

Balinda came to accept she could not understand the pervasive sexual immorality of Ymirheim, only loath it. Adding to the confusion were the ways of the women here. Explained to her from Freydis, vrykul women often refused the advances of men they desired because "if they truly wanted a woman, they'd take her regardless of invitation." It was a sign of strength and genuine desire, not whimsical lust, according to the second val'kyr. Balinda called it madness.

Drekthac had boasted that there were more greys to the world than paladins could see. Feeling tight-lipped, she excused it as grey only in the circumstances they had created, not how a society should be. His laughter burned in her ears. Five days she had been here now.

A plate of vomit-colored slop was tossed before Drekthac. He grabbed his fork and appeared delighted by it, glancing at her with a smile, "Mmm-mh! Human expulsion and pig waste yet again. My favorite."

Balinda did not know what was most frustrating to her, that this man reveled in his ways or that nothing she said or did could get a rise from him anymore. Apparently the Ymirjar had legendary feasting halls with the finest meals and meads in the land, yet each night he insisted she make him dinner.

So she did. Poorly. Just for him.

Drekthac sat at the head of the table, beginning to tear into the disgusting meal like a wolf into lamb, while she took a seat at the second human-sized chair at his left. She crossed her arms before her, feeling testy at his constantly barbed behavior around her, pricking her with every action or word.

She reminded herself, however, of his words the first day. The "drunken ramble" as he called it. It had not taken her long to realize the accuracy of his notion of good character or bad in the regard of a captive. In comparison to Freydis, his true woman, he could nearly be called a saint!

The val'kyr had ideas for a new captive, especially one of "her sort." Clothes left her too comfortable; a collar should be kept in place as reminder; like a dog, Balinda should eat scraps from the floor without her hands, bending over for both of their viewing pleasure; baths were a commodity to be earned; speaking without prior addressing should result in beatings; luxuries could only begin for her when she proved agreeable to sexual favors.

Hell's Bells, but Balinda had felt _grateful_ to Drekthac for deflecting all of those points. Of course, should he have tried a one of them, she would resist – violently. She worried though that Drekthac could overcome her even if fighting with the Light; paladins were not invulnerable in combat, with the exception of maybe Malthon. Balinda was better than most, but she was not immortal. And getting the jump on Drekthac would not work every time.

"Gods, the salt compliments this so nicely. It nearly eliminates the aftertaste and the actual taste. Foretaste too, for that matter."

Balinda said nothing. She knew adding the salt would make the meal a tad more bearable, but she did it on whim. There were a thousand better things she could have made or used to improve this – her mother had trained her to be an excellent cook, kept secret from the estate servants – though she did not know why she had done that one.

Drekthac eventually finished his meal without much preamble, scraping it clean even, and left her to clean it, with a small token of thanks. Blighted man even sounded genuine during it, which only served to infuriate her. Apart from insisting he be present in the room when she took her baths, he had done nothing to warrant judgment or disdain. He still believed, against her word, that she was truly Lady Eyenhart, Malthon's wife.

The fool did not know a thing about law and her oaths. A Crowngarde could never marry into the crown. It would interfere with her duties. That was a possibility eliminated when Malthon promoted himself from lord to king. They would never wed, not public or private.

The reminder sent her into silence, even as Drekthac announced that he was leaving. The opening of the door reminded her of having to fix it. It had been her first truly required task, as his servant. Simple enough: purchase new wood and hinges for it, then nail them in, but Light, Freydis made an impossible taskmistress in overseeing its completion.

Alone in the longhouse now, Balinda sighed and moved her chair over to the brazier. Northrend was cold, and the vrykul never seemed to notice. Drekthac included. The blighted windows were even left open to allow a breeze, and she'd been forbidden to close them.

Only a short minute after Drekthac departed, the door opened again. Noticing the diminutive human shape from her peripheral, rather than a white-skinned giantess, she assumed he must have forgotten something and paid him no mind, keeping her hands near the fire.

There were a few seconds of silence, not even his heavy boots stomping over the wood floor. Balinda began to wonder at his meaning until a voice uttered softly, "Balinda..."

She froze. That was not Drekthac's voice. Light, but she could _never_ forget that voice. Not Drekthac's, and not this one. The sunburst of elation quickly died to a rush of panic, and Balinda jumped to her feet, turning to the speaker. Seeing him confirmed it.

"Hell's Bells, what are you doing here, Malthon?" she cried, then quickly chastised herself. The Ymirjar were unbelievable scouts and detectors. Even non-Ymirjar villagers could likely pick up her words, understanding the name and meaning, and send warriors into the house.

"Balinda!" he repeated, now with obvious joy, and the fool lumbered towards her with swift feet and swept her into his strong arms.

The reunion tugged at Balinda's chest, and she caved in to the urge to hug him back. Light, but this wasn't the time for this. She came back to herself and pushed him away, frowning and feeling abuzz with anxiety. Had he been captured?

He wore no armor and carried no shield. Only simple linen shirt and breeches, like what she wore, covered by a blue-white cloak. At his hip was a long hunting knife that did not show through the cloak. What was he...?

"How did you get here?" she found herself asking, then paused, "Light, but _why_ are you here?"

"I sneaked in. Cloudrend is waiting for us; I'm here to take you out," he said, smiling.

Balinda shook her head viciously. None of this made sense. Was she dreaming? Or was he really that much of a fool? "Malthon, the Light took me here. It wanted me to be captured by Drekthac, it let him take me without warning me away, and now I'm here for a purpose." Recalling the way it worked within him, it should never have let him get this far, against its own plan. "How on Azeroth did the Light let you come here?"

"I'm drunk," he told her earnestly, like a five-year-old admitting to redecorating his room. With a hammer.

Sniffing his breath, Balinda realized he was. Light, but her time with Drekthac made that stench a familiar one. She shook her head, pacing away from him. She heard soft leather boots trail after her. "Malthon, you Light-blasted lummox!" She spun on her heel, thrusting her face against his, and he blinked rapidly as he stumbled backward.

"Wha-?"

"Get out of here before a Ymirjar discovers you!" she hissed. "Leave me here, you idiot, and get back to safety. Hell's Bells!" She spun again, feeling her breathing growing faster with panic. His strong hand came to her arm, touching it gently yet backed by his great strength. Similar yet so different from when Drekthac touched her.

"Balinda, I won't leave without you."

Balinda closed her eyes at his tone. She steeled her resolve and whispered harshly, "There is a _reason_ I'm here, Malthon. Damn it all, I cannot and will not leave with you, you fool."

He turned her about to face him, and his other hand came to her other arm. Balinda glared at him, but he was stern. "I do not care about the Light or its will," he intoned. It sent a shock through her. "I care about you. I won't fall for its plan this time. Not with you at stake. Light, Balinda, I'm taking you with me."

The lock of silver in Balinda's hair had fallen before her eyes, and she fought his grip to brush it aside. The reminder sent a cold wave through her, and she understood his meaning. The Light's will could come with a cost, for a good far greater than a personal one. They knew it; she had witnessed it tear Malthon apart before. That silver strand was testimony of it.

"Malthon," she started, feeling sympathetic. Inside her, the Light pulled, giving her the direction it never seemed to pass onto Malthon himself. His cross was the heaviest of all, she knew. Light, but she knew it. It was her turn to carry it for him, however. "No."

"Balinda?"

"Get. Out." Her words were colder than she meant, but she held firm. "I am staying with Drekthac, until I am taken elsewhere or until I die. Go back to the army and ready yourselves for war. Forget about me and focus on what you need to."

"No, I-"

Slap!

Malthon's eyes bulged and he wheeled back after being struck. Balinda took a steadying breath. "You listen to me, you lummox. I am not yours to demand about as you please. You haven't held a single connection to me since the Scourge took Lordaeron. Now get out of this longhouse before a Ymirjar wonders at this commotion or one of them come back. Drekthac will skin you a new one if he catches you drunk."

Malthon's hand dropped from his bearded cheek. Light, but he seemed so disheveled, and now so defeated. She had heard from report that Malthon had been frantic since her capture, but seeing him in this light made it real, not some fanciful idea of things outside Ymirheim's walls.

Very quietly, barely able to be heard, he asked with his eyes on the floor, "Do I really mean so little to you?"

Balinda came forward to push him towards the door, feeling more urgent than ever. The Light was warning her; someone was coming. "You mean as much to me as a king does to a Crowngarde," she whispered sharply. "Exactly as you wanted!" She shoved him hard, sending him stumbling. "Now get out!"

There was a second more of pause, and then he moved both swiftly and silent, as he did during their hunts in the forests as adolescents. He slipped outside with Balinda still watching, and the door closed behind him.

For a long moment, Balinda stared at that door, breathing audibly. Their brief conversation flashed through her head, her words and sharpness, and his responses. Quickly, she shoved it all out, throwing the final plate of steel up around her emotions. Malthon was a big boy; he'd take care of himself.

Despite all the times she took care of him.

Expressionless now, Balinda turned from the door and slowly walked back to the chair and brazier. She sat down, the only sound in the silent room, and her hands resumed their place in warming up.

Balinda sat in silence, alone and cold.

XxX

Drekthac concluded finally that he needed to make friends. The issue was not that he was especially socially inept or starved – he tended to find drinking buddies and those who would fight at his side easily enough – but it seemed the only one who took that place in Ymirheim was Britta.

"So wittle hooman stand on shoulders of smaller hooman," the blue giantess was shouting as she slapped her own bared shoulders, "and then big-head Drekthac maybe see Britta to eyes!" There was no joke there, Drekthac concluded sourly, yet she bellowed a hearty laugh at it.

He had a fine sense of humor; that just didn't seem to include Britta. At all. He wanted her replaced by someone far saner.

Perhaps her company would still be bearable if it weren't for the more domestic problems that had built up at home. His captive, the White Lady, abruptly turned into a bitter mess one night without explanation. She became... amiable. It repelled him in the worst way. No more fire, no words of judgment or conversation. She grunted single syllables always. Gods, she even cooked him decent meals without prompting.

The change unnerved Drekthac. Her lips proved tighter shut than her nethers in getting an explanation from her. Initially, Freydis had been pleased, thinking Balinda to have accepted her place. Of late, Freydis seemed to stay longer at the Val'kyr Halls than with him, pacing back and forth between here and Jotunheim. Despite the movement of the armies to merge with the Fool King's, it seemed a new Valhalas was to be held soon.

Even with the distance, Freydis had come to realize that the change wasn't right. Drekthac held a broken, useless shell as slave, not the graceful sword-dancer called the White Lady. Drekthac was to the point of wishing to offer her back her armor and weapons, so she could challenge him for freedom. Anything to breath the fight back in her.

Just today, Freydis had passed news to him through a reluctant tongue. The announcement took them both by surprise, but Drekthac did not experience Freydis' regret. Rather, he had laughed at the irony, pleased, and told her of the glory it might bring him still. The cost was a slave.

If Balinda Crowngarde-Eyenhart could not take heart in the call for her name in the Valhalas battle pit, to undergo the trials of worthiness, then she was already lost.

"You ignore me?" Britta's loud voice demanded. "Hooman peeg! Britta challenge you!"

Drekthac glanced at his current drinking companion. He saw one of her hands fingering one of her many throwing knives, her white-blue eyes glaring at him. He waited impassively until she reconsidered, instead throwing her elbow on the table with her hand up. Arm wrestling.

"Take it to the slush pits," he snorted, grabbing his mug and drinking deep. That was one way to make Britta bearable: Silence her ego, take off her clothes, and make her sing. With eyes on her again, he studied her lips and throat, recalled her alluring voice in song. He remembered what had him returning to her company and why he had sought her out today. Except she had only boasted today; no songs.

He spooked at the feel of something large pressing against his crotch, looking down to see her sandal precariously close to crushing something it shouldn't. Britta's sly, amused voice said in the vrykul tongue, _"We both know you'd try slipping things into places they haven't earned, little one. You are not getting me into a pit, no matter what Helgrin sings of you."_

"Sings?" Drekthac barked, eyes widening. The word was stark among the rest. "They've put it into fucking songs now?"

"Ja! Fooking songs!" Britta told him, grinning. "You ride Hilda and Hilda glory song."

"_In Vrykul,"_ he demanded. Between them, as they struggled to learn each others language, those two words (along with "In Coh-moon" from her) had popularized when they needed the clarification of words in spoken in their natural tongue. As Drekthac had mastered Vrykul well beyond she had Common, only his request seemed to be used.

Britta rolled her eyes, taking her time to finish her mug before answer. Drekthac realized he probably didn't want to know only after he had asked. _"Breaking Hilda's abstinence is a legendary feat, and her glory has added to yours in your mounting. You ride on Hilda and her glory in the song."_ In Common: "Fooking hooman."

"Gods, you don't sound like a floundering fool in Vrykul. Can't you stay that way?" Drekthac mumbled, considering the notion of the song. Was "Bedder of Hilda" really going to be a fucking title of his? Noticing Britta's distant look, he realized she was still struggling over his words. His words came dry: _"You in Vrykul, pretty. You in Common, ugly. Stay Vrykul."_

Drunk Britta took it as a challenge, slapping the table and jutting a thick finger his way. "Fook you! Britta to learned Cah-moon good lo best, uh tis- till! best hooman jee-loose and Dragoon toongue be knoots!"

Persistent wench. Drekthac smiled into his mug.

"Oi, Hal!" Drekthac called out, and one of the vrykul present in the tavern looked, scowling. Drekthac jerked his thumb Britta's way. _"Well knocked her mind dazed. Good mix."_ The brewer Ymirjar grinned, while Britta took up a sputtering rejection, voice enraged.

Throwing down a few silver marks from habit, Drekthac stood from his seat. Before Britta could fully grasp a sentence, he turned and caught the soft underside of her chin with his calloused finger. She froze at the pressure, allowing him to say warmly, _"Improve my shooting soon, eh?"_ He winked and dragged his finger from under her chin, turning to leave.

Complementing while she was still insulted. Drekthac dared to guess he was taking a page from Hilda's book by it, but damn him if it didn't befuddle a good woman nicely. He looked forward to his next meeting with her, after letting the exchange settle. He had news to break to Balinda still.

XxX

"What good is a weak man?" Maldrid scoffed. In unison with her mood, her dark wings thumped to reaffirm her point.

Balinda remained stern faced, countering, "What good is a relationship without love?"

"Love? Hah!" Drekthac's handmaiden had surprising substance to her, when urged to speak. Balinda had discovered that in short order, yet with the man actually present, Maldrid's presence shrank to but a shadow. It must have been a servant thing that had her open to Balinda. "Who can define love? No one ever feels it the same way to different people. Even husbands with two wives feels differently for both, even if it may be called love either way!"

"You call it a moot point then?"

"Better to argue why the sun shines or the color of the Ghost Light! A good vrykul women does not fill her head with empty thoughts of love, but with solid desires of _passion_, human. Hate, lust, they are only manifestations of passion, and love can be found in it. Sweet words can seduce your heart, and that is disgusting. Think of deception! If a man wants a woman, he should earn her, and then she will consider him in earnest."

Balinda had abandoned the "arguing with a brick wall" analogy days ago. This was a fortress dressed in thorns and fire. With a blighted moat around it.

"And if it is a man you genuinely loath? He is both ugly and without honor, but he can overpower you. You will then consider that man, because he rapes you?"

"I would kill him in his sleep."

"But he already-"

"He took his prize, and he will be punished. It is no better to lament the thought of thief whom already consumed your foodstuff; you can only punish, then proceed."

Light, but Balinda was nearing a sour mood. How could she approach this topic with the woman? The Light offered no help.

Now, Maldrid questioned her, "So you humans really would take any man? He does not even need to prove his desire besides a few words and maybe a gift for "interest?" Your Malthon, how did he prove himself to you?"

_If it blighted helps...!_ "He was brave and bold," Balinda burst, before she could even consider the implications. "He displayed honor in every action, no matter how much of a bullheaded fool he was being. When I was distressed, he showed care and kindness, and when he was lost, he showed me trust, just as I could place my trust in him. He became wise where most were fools, and he was strong where others were weak. Light, he deserved more than I could offer him, and I..." _would do anything to ease his burdens._

Taking a breath to control her suddenly racing heart, Balinda finished coolly, "He did not need to climb atop me, ripping at my clothes, to prove himself worthy."

Maldrid nodded, though her helmet masked her expression. "Yes, he may be worthy, but where did he prove his desire for you? Where did he show that among all other prospects that he would take you, through any obstacle?"

By vrykul perspective, he didn't, Balinda realized. They had only agreed through words- _"I do not care about the Light or its will. I care about you. I won't fall for its plan this time. Not with you at stake. Light, Balinda, I'm taking you with me."_ It was a drunken voice in her head, struggling but resolute. Through any obstacle, even the Light itself.

"Oh..." Balinda uttered, falling back from where she was addressing Maldrid. She stumbled into a chair. "Oh, _Light..."_

"What is it?" the val'kyr asked. Not with kindness, just curiosity.

Dare she say? Dare she reveal the boldness of the Fool King? Balinda couldn't help herself: "He came for me. Light, he came for me, Maldrid. Standing right where you are now, Malthon had come for me, through all of Ymirheim and its many Ymirjar, to take me away from here. Through any obstacle... and I turned him _away."_

For a long moment, Maldrid was silent. Shocked, likely, at the idea of someone getting that far through the city – perhaps testing her for a lie. Not with disdain, the val'kyr whispered, "You see then my point? Do not show regret, for if he had truly cared, he would have taken you against your word. That is love, that is desire."

A flash of self-loathing and urge to defend Malthon reached her. "Love is respect," she returned with equal quiet. More than desire. "And though he tried, I shut him down, made him respect my choice for staying."

How could she not have realized this before? Malthon, that Light-blessed and Light-damned man, had been so open and honest, so clean and clear, this whole while. It was not their past bond but their current one that he had striven for. More than old friends, she realized, Malthon still _loved_ her. By the Light...

_But if that was true, why did he raise himself to king?_ a wicked voice whispered with vulgar excuse. _He knew that there could be nothing between a king and a Crowngarde._ Another voice rose, arguing with the ardor of the Light: _Remember the words of Lord Goldwind. Malthon was made to wear a crown he did not want. The Light grooms him to its charge, in necessity, and the day will come where he tosses it into the deepest ocean._

Balinda fought to shut out both voices. This was not the day or age to entertain such thoughts. She was sworn to celibacy, married to vengeance. Malthon _knew_ that. Light, she had made sure he knew to stay away from her.

The sound of an iron latch drew their attention to the door of the longhouse. Drekthac had returned, seen in the snowy storm at the open doorway. He shut out the icy breeze before more heat could escape, then brushed at the snow on his cloaks. Balinda's conversation with Maldrid was over; the val'kyr would not speak in his presence without prompting.

His glance her way was careful, thick lips drawing thin before asking, "Any troubles?"

A flash of trepidation passed through her, as she realized that Maldrid could tell him about Malthon's visit. She did not know what Drekthac's reaction would be at almost losing his prize, but she worried it would make peace between them impossible. The val'kyr, however, only said, "None, my liege. She remains mopey and weak in heart." Though the val'kyr did not glance her way, Balinda recognized the deliberate pause at the end, letting Balinda know she would hold that secret for at least a spell longer.

"Like a child," Drekthac growled, unclasping his cloaks and throwing them onto their hooks. "Leave us. I will breathe the fight back into this one, while I believe you still have a private place to find."

Balinda noticed the quiver that passed through Maldrid's back muscles. The prospect excited her or left her nervous. From the deep way the handmaiden bowed and the pleased tone of her words, Balinda guessed the former: "You play games, my liege. This fool's task is a tease."

His approach had him passing the val'kyr, but he paused to set his hand on her hip and slide it around to her back, giving a small shove towards the door. "So find an empty house and break in, one waiting for a future Ymirjar or a recent slain one. If you don't prove creative, Maldrid, then you won't prove worthwhile."

With a morbid fascination, Balinda recognized the sexual tension between the two. Already, she had been made to sit through the sessions of his time with Freydis, but never had she witnessed any romantic ties between these two. With the conversation on vrykul courtship still in mind, she watched on silently.

"Such a place could be expected within an hour, my liege, but it is not my creativity that is lacking. It is you who has placed conditions without merit; are you not bold enough to have even Lady Hilda know? I do not serve a coward."

Until that comment, Drekthac's eyes and attention had been on Balinda. Eyebrows raising, he turned to the val'kyr, who only slowly moseyed her way to the door with a whimsical air. He took small, soundless steps towards her as he demanded, "Is that bite I hear from you? Mistaking insight for a simpering heart though, a dangerous challenge."

"Insight?" Maldrid questioned airily. "In running from legacy? Shall I sing you a song before I depart, my lie-!"

Even Balinda flinched at the powerful crack of his hand against Maldrid's buttocks. That strength against a human would leave her unable to sit for weeks, perhaps even fracture a bone. After the initial spook, Maldrid hummed in a deep voice while he drawled, "Catch your tongue, lest I occupy it otherwise, handmaiden. A spider's web is no more enjoyable to a dragon than a fly, if its venom remains fatal. Now find that bed before I have to find it for us."

"Of course, my liege," Maldrid returned in a low, dangerous voice. Light, but it burned with both pleasure and anger, Balinda recognized. Maldrid had incited that reaction deliberately. At the turn of the masked head at the doorway, Balinda realized that Maldrid had done it for _her._ Those dark painted lips were set with satisfied. Then she faced the door again and left.

The Dragon kept a fond smile aimed at Maldrid's departure for a moment longer before returning his intent on Balinda. She steeled herself for however he might come at her, be it argument, demand, or another attempt at sexual favor. Instead, he lifted one of the human-sized chairs in passing and slammed it down before him, straddling it backwards and facing her.

"Let's talk," he said, leaning against the wooden back.

Balinda's own chair was only a few feet past his, leaving them faced for a conversation. Though she wished to turn away, Balinda remained seated and met his gaze, impassive. The scent of alcohol from his breath reached her.

In reply, she shrugged. "We have exhausted our words already. Like a fool, you will not accompany King Malthon, and now they begin to march towards Storm Peaks alone."

"Always back to the Fool King," he remarked. "Why don't you ever concern yourself with yourself?"

The purpose of this chat could be anyone's guess. Balinda did not rise to the question, only uttering, "Hm."

"And there it is again," he sighed, shaking his head. "Noncommittal. Vague. Nothing more than a lifeless husk. It is absolutely miserable for us both, you know." Balinda did not care, but she assumed she knew what his goal was now.

Her thoughts turned inward, however. The Light had taken her here. It had taken her as one of the one hundred companions to Malthon's attack, and it had let her be captured at its conclusion. Malthon even had to get drunk to try for a rescue. Yes, she was supposed to be here in Ymirheim, but for what purpose, she did not know.

From the start, she had tried explaining Malthon and his intents to Drekthac, thinking the man might be swayed that way. That illusion had been ripped apart with each clashing conversation. Some other factor had to be in motion before the Dragon would commit Ymirheim to the war; he was waiting for something.

Those thick lips of his were pursed with thought in his regard for her now. Eventually, he stood from the chair, so soon after sitting, and made to her right. He spoke while moving, "In all of my home, only one chest has remaining locked. I presume you know by now what lies within." From his waist, bouncing between the skulls, he withdrew a key and knelt before the one chest in question.

Balinda assumed she did. The whole longhouse had been ransacked in search of her equipment beforehand. At the absence, she took it to mean he either discarded it or kept it within that chest. Hours had been spent trying to bypass that lock, whenever she could spare a private moment, but it was not meant to be. Not yet.

The iron lock fell and the aged hinged creaked as the lid yawned open. Balinda had a brief vision of a dragon's maw, opening to spew a bellyful of fire, but then it cleared, revealing the orange glow as something enchanted within. With hardly a moment's hesitation, Drekthac scooped his hands in and tossed out a clanking pile of metal and blue.

Her armor, all of it, even the heavy shield. Reaching in again, he lifted out a straight sword, pale as moonlight and nearly as radiant. A blessed blade, Balinda's own. The warrior tested the steel in his hand, finding a firm hold on the grip, and he turned it about, then swung. Gently, he let the tip touched the ground, holding it steady by the pommel.

"A blade that can slay Ymirjar. Cherish this steel dearly, paladin, for when all else is lost, even Light, it will remain faithful to you." Balinda's only warning was a flash from the Light. Drekthac scraped the end up over the stone floor to hurl the sword her way. Light guiding her, Balinda's hand snatched out and found the leather grip, catching it before she would be gutted.

He was smiling then, nodding in a satisfied way. "I had news for you, but that can wait. Dress yourself, White Lady. We shall cross arms."

Balinda hesitated for a long moment, turning her sword over in her hands. She recognized his tribute to the creed of steel, echoing similar words from her father. Krassin Crowngarde had been a knight before the Order of the Silver Hand was founded, then one of the first paladins trained with Uther and Tirion. He knew the ways of steel before the ways of Light, yet neither could save him when the Prince betrayed the King. The King had been slain right before his helpless hands that day, with him soon to follow, claimed by Frostmourne.

Gentle urgings within her moved Balinda finally. She began to dress, slow as it was for a paladin, while Drekthac moved away to find his own armor. He meant for this to be a serious duel, to the death if she understood these Ymirjar properly. Val'kyr- nay, vrykul magic would return the loser, she suspected.

It felt right to be dressed in steel again. Balinda felt it burrow deeper than clothing, penetrating her skin and soul. It armored every part of her, and she became one with the steel around her. The tension in her lower back relaxed away, adjusting to carrying her new weight, while the Light flooded through her iron pores to fill her entire being. Balinda basked in the moment, her hand finding her sword again.

Looking down, she saw only her blue plumed centurion helmet remained, and she knelt to retrieve it. It was her crown, her duty, burden, and purpose. To wear that was to leave behind Balinda and become the Crowngarde. That was how she always saw it; the armor she could wear to any occasion, yet the helmet was only for battle.

With steady hands, she lifted the helmet and set it over her head, angled just so to keep her hair pinned behind her head, away from her face and eyes. The leather strap beneath her chin was tightened, securing it, and she stood with the lazy grace that she was known for, ready for war.

Horns blared.

Balinda faced Drekthac, cool in expression beneath her helmet, but the warrior – similarly suited – was facing the door with alarm. Neither of his massive swords budged in their sheaths as he took several rapid, heavy steps to his door, then hesitated.

"What is it?" she asked despite herself. Her mind was clear and sharp, her arm ready to draw, and the Light buzzed with energy, as it did in battle.

"Something is attacking our walls," he answered simply. Balinda knew that was not all; no attack phased the Ymirjar, as had been seen in the last two years of warring. He sensed her question, adding as he undid the latch, "And the scouts are requesting aid."

The scouts never requested aid.

"Stay here," he growled, then sprinted out the door with a speed that did not match the bulk he carried.

Balinda stared at the open door in his absence, seeing the swirling snow dancing in a great storm. The Light within matched the weather, telling her it was time to fight. She could not ignore its call. The White Lady followed, unchained and armed.

XxX

When the Ymirjar toyed with the human army, they were given a fresh taste of the new foes that bubbled out of Storm Peaks like bad froth. If Drekthac needed further verification of the threat of the darklings, he received it there. The intrigue of this foe had the vrykul bubbling with excitement... and unease. This foe was unnatural; superstition and tales of old left them wary.

Nearly all of the Ymirjar had returned to Ymirheim now, leaving them near six hundred even after the losses against the Fool King. The changed world had them wanting unity, now more than ever. They wanted the strength of the clan behind them, to weather the storm or to battle it should the horns be blown.

They battled it now.

From their taste, they recognized two varieties to the darklings: the basic and those with their eyes cut out. The latter were marked by a vast difference in strength, unhindered by their apparent disability. Bad omens, the Ymirjar murmured. Like Hela-spawn, even the defeated darklings had the final laugh as their deaths prompted eruptions of guts and blood, some violent and wide, that sizzled away flesh and steel alike on contact.

When Drekthac reached the gate, clamoring among his reckless brothers and sisters, they realized how dire the current threat was. The gate had been seized against them. From its vast heights, darklings leapt unnaturally far to tackle down the val'kyr, shredding their wings and breaking their astral bodies. They were killing the val'kyr, in their home city!

Drekthac's voice was not alone in its furious roar. The Ymirjar machine lost its cold control. Heroes, champions, the finest fighters ever produced lost their poise and screamed for murder. Scores of eyeless darklings met their advanced, as hungry as the Ymirjar in the lust for blood.

It was a battle like Drekthac had never experienced before. He had charged siege machines, faced arrow hail and musket sweeps, routed cavalry advances by foot – even faced the worst orcish hordes with employed goblin landminers. The awesome power of the vrykuls proved reminiscent to lumbering ogres, yet it remained focused, disciplined, and utterly ruthless. The spells were not exchanges of lobbed orbs or bolts – flesh and earth alike ripped apart like the shattering of glass.

In return, the eyeless fought like Hela incarnates. Extra limbs, heads, fanciful weapons of bone or black steel lashed back with sharp efficiency, wielded like they were masters of their own bodies. Scaled carapaces worked like armor, and skin like robust shields – yet with the dark, unfocused appearance of them, it was impossible to tell the attributes of ones opponent.

With the explosive nature of darkling deaths, their spirits claimed as if by angry gods heedless of whom was around, Drekthac found it as mad as charging fields of land mines or cannon-armed lines. Bodies, viscera, guts and glory flung through the air with ear-numbing booms, mixing with the screams of the killing and dying. The Ymirjar plowed through it.

Here, a Ymirjar raised his axe with a bellow to shake mountains, yet as the axe fell, the darkling sprang forward, clawing for his belly. A raised knee kept it back, finding rake marks through the thigh and calf, and then the axe cracked the hard shell of its back, slicing down. Tentacles slipped into the warrior's arms, blood spilling around the boneless appendages, until all at once they burst out at separate points and pulled both arms off. The man roared louder, and he stomped a foot over the back of the axe, sending it the rest of the way through the darkling.

Both figures vanished in the following eruption.

There, a huntress and her worg wrestled down a nathrazim-shaped darkling nearly twice her size, with its wings buffeting in frustration. The battle-worn animal had it pinned, latched onto its neck from behind and clawing with its legs, using its weight to keep the winged darkling stumbling. Black hooves sought purchase over the snow, while the huntress sent bolts into its face, throat – anywhere the thick black armor couldn't be perceived. Barely, the worg released it in time to escape the death throes.

Drekthac found his own opponent. Four arms with four swords, the blades nearly eight feet in length and slender. Standing at fifteen feet, it also had reach he couldn't match. He met it in a lunge, seeking the heart. Blades came for him, ready, yet they scraped off his shoulders, bracers, and guarding swords until he thrust one into its chest. Drekthac growled as he saw two hidden tentacles brew forth from the black chest and wrap up his sword towards his body.

Kicking off the stomach, he fell to the ground, rolling aside, then spun to cleave off a leg. He found his feet a second later, blades up defensively as he paced aside. He watched, disgusted, as the two reaching tentacles froze in the air, then one shut back inward, impaling its leaking hole to plug the wound, while the other snapped downward into the ground to stabilize it, acting like a new leg.

The arms struck the instant it was balanced. The darkling bent at the waist to reach his height, while Drekthac dodged back, waiting. Once the forth blade missed, he lunged in, accepting one to scrape over his shoulder again, and swung up to carve a good foot into its torso from beneath. Whatever genitals it had spilled out behind him, and it shrieked inhumanly.

Still with forward momentum, Drekthac stomped a foot to catch all of his force, pivoting as he did – and barely keeping from slipping over the icy ground – and then planted his other to lunge up again. His body roared at the stain, turning all that momentum backwards so quickly, but his feet left the ground a final time for him to swing both blades down its broad back.

On the ground again, he noticed the telltale convulsing and retreated, watching its body snap apart like a firestick. A second eyeless charged through the spray of acid-blood, unharmed, to jump on the Ymirjar still shielding herself from it.

Gods, but this was a foe _worthy_ of the Ymirjar! An army of the eyeless!

"Take the gate!" he roared out, already charging forward – between several advancing darklings – to meet the one behind. That would advance their line, if he could live. This was how he changed the pace of wars. Advance them, live, and advance again. Claim the objectives as they needed. Always, it worked best if stout men had his back for it. Any Ymirjar would do.

Above, watching val'kyr repeated the command for him in Vrykul, and the clan clamored to do just that. However, only a few seconds later the voices changed to screaming, _"Man the harpoons! Shoot them down!"_

It took Drekthac several seconds to translate the panicked, screaming Vrykul while fighting, but once he did, he noticed the shadows passing overhead. Looking, he saw scores of flying darklings passing over the gate, aiming for the val'kyr.

"FOR THE EMPRESS AND THE MASTER!"

The victorious scream sounded as if of insects, but those were no nerubians Drekthac had encountered, not even with the vagueness of the darklings. Since the first few exchanges, they had noticed darklings usually were shaped similar to some familiar species, but these were too fey to pinpoint them.

Drekthac shoved back his foe, scoffing at the clawmarks his breastplate gained from it, then got his fingers in his mouth, whistling. The val'kyr would not stand a chance, though he felt far too late for this. Slamming the ground, he created a shockwave powerful enough to stagger and stun even these foes, then retreated back to let the siege-breaking behemoths take his place.

These flying darklings hurled towards the val'kyr. Ymirjar marksmen, harpooners, and spell-weavers dropped them like flies, rank after rank, but still they pushed. The val'kyr readied themselves for combat – no one in Ymirheim was an invalid in combat – but then one swooped before them all. She seemed to tower over even her sisters, with wings of white stretching wide as she gathered power before and around her.

It took Drekthac a long moment to recognize Hilda before the val'kyr. He had never seen her in the face mask before, nor in armor. Yet the presence was unforgettable, radiant as her pale form burst with illuminations from her power. Whatever rune-spell she was conjuring proved complex, needing time as thousands of symbols blossomed around her, until the darklings were nearly to her.

It came in a torrent of shadow. Like the waves of the ocean, it pealed up and high, swelling with its wrath, and then lunged forward into the darkling horde, swallowing them whole. Just then, a green proto-drake, Coralhide, landed before Drekthac and screeched, and he made the leap into the saddle despite his armor.

The instant Drekthac had his hands around the reigns, he felt someone massive slip behind him, pressing close. _"Go!"_ a feminine voice demanded in Vrykul, and he snapped them. Coralhide roared and took to the sky, though he was slower with the weight. Drekthac noticed dozens of other drake riders already barreling into the flying darklings – not even Hilda's spell had wiped out all it had hit. The val'kyr were in total combat.

As soon as Coralhide was level in the air, Drekthac's riding partner jumped from the saddle. He looked back with wide eyes, seeing Britta now balancing on her toes, crouched, with several arrows clenched between her teeth. Seeing his look, she winked at him, then took one arrow and set it to the string of her bow, drawing.

Laughing at the insane huntress, Drekthac felt relieved it was she at his back, and he urged Coralhide directly into the pit of the flying darklings. As a Ymirjar of old – at least twenty-five years before the Long Slumber – Britta the Blood Maid would have attempted to excel in every field she could. Drekthac had to trust that fighting from drake-back was one field as they met the first flying, insectoid darkling.

Coralhide jumped up in the air a few feet higher to claw at the black of one, and in the sudden bank to the side, Drekthac leaped to the side – holding on by one of the handles of the saddle – to decapitate another. Bolts shot past his head into other targets, the whistle loud by his ear. It joined the many other dozens already piercing the sky from nearly every angle.

Coralhide had character, Drekthac had come to learn. It was a bloody complainer: always shrieking, always loud, annoyed when he didn't ride it and annoyed when he did. Once, the drake had sent its head through his window while he and Freydis were in bed, demanding to be fed. But for all its faults, the drake proved exceptional in the air. It was strong, resilient, and fierce. The Overthane had gifted him a princely drake.

Now, Coralhide proved himself again. While he hung off the right side, Britta – well over his weight in balance – set aside her bow to lunge to the left side of the drake, still biting shafts of arrows between her teeth, and slashed with her curved knife at a darkling coming in from the flank. The creature bounded off the empty saddle – barely missing Drekthac – then exploded in the air just beyond, spraying acidic mist upon those fighting on the ground.

Despite the weight of their scrambling around over the proto-drake, Coralhide maintained his position and even fought himself, breathing fire. A bloody fine drake.

Shortly into the combat, Drekthac peered towards the gate, wondering how his kin were faring. Before he could catch a visual, something grabbed him by the back and heaved him up and off the handle hold. He swung his sword, hoping to cleave his captor, yet found it stopped by a steady parry from Britta.

Gods, but she was beautiful. Many of the trophies that feathered her hair had blown out in the billowing gusts of the sky, leaving her appearing more wild than usual. Her soft blue skin, interrupted on one side with a series of tattoos. At that moment, her face was set with fiery determination, unphased by his attack that she held at bay.

"Helgrin og Maldrid," she told him curtly, then looked pointedly over her shoulder.

Drekthac eased off his strike, letting his feet find their place on the saddle again, while he followed her look. In the sea of white and black bodies, two in particular stood out, fighting nearly back to back. In the swift moving way of aerial fighting, that was an impossibility, but it was clear the two covered each other in the same way.

Against them were a score, trapping them outside of the main body of val'kyr. Maldrid, his val'kyr. Helgrin, Britta's. He found it odd that those two especially fought together, like he and Britta did, but did not debate the matter further. Britta released him, and Drekthac carefully sat in the saddle again, taking up the reigns and guiding Coralhide their way. He could not balance on the beast like her feet could.

The proto-drake swept by the val'kyr, smashing apart those that pressed against that side. By a particularly loud scream, Drekthac knew Coralhide had been wounded for it, but they fought on. Against these numbers, and a foe far more suited to aerial combat, Drekthac realized their fight was a losing one.

The val'kyr and proto-drakes needed a rallying point. Gods, but did that work in the air? He had no experience in fights up here, only what he did on the ground. He liked to work as a damage sink, letting everything mob him while the rest struck the enemy from behind, and he always lived through the worst situations.

The rage was thick in his blood, building with no way to vent. His armor kept it boiling.

"Britta!" he roared while severing the wings from one passing darkling. They looked like mantises, with scythe-like arms, but it was difficult to tell all of their details.

The huntress screamed back, "Ja?"

He did not know what to say, but he knew they needed a better plan. Another darkling came at them, yet immediately Drekthac noticed a difference. It was eyeless, like the rest, yet something about it seemed bigger, swifter, deadlier. Its arms began to slice and dice rapidly before it even got to him, creating a wall of thorns for him.

Drekthac thrust his blade into it, hoping to halt the arms, yet the darkling seemed to intend on that, for with two touches, it twisted his sword out of his hands entirely, leaving him defenseless. His gauntlets and bracers should be able to block them, but would it have a way to take the arm?

Drekthac had no time to think. He trusted his braces, thrusting his arm against the blades. Deep furrows cut into the metal, appearing near instantly between the blurred blades, with sounds like shrieks and sprays of sparks. The arm was turned aside similar to the sword, slamming into the bracers when reaching the extremities. The solid metal strained, but the angle also left the soft parts of his armpit and opposite the elbow vulnerable.

The scythes took the advantage, burying into the joint of his elbow. Drekthac roared in pain but mostly frustration. The darkling purred in pleasure, tugging back to claim the limb. The bracers stopped the attempt, but then Drekthac was stuck clinging to Coralhide in one hand and fully suspended in the air by the other. Something about his nerves prevented him from pulling in right arm, no matter his strength.

"Fooking hooman!" Britta screamed, appearing from the other end of the drake with her bow already drawn. She fired off two arrows in quick succession, fitting arrows instantly and without looking, and the darkling hissed at them appearing in its face.

The scythe was pried out of his arm, and Drekthac quickly scrambled back to Coralhide, his right arm flaring with angry pain. The rage was creating a red haze in his mind, and he struggled to keep his wits about him for once. If he didn't, the rage would send him hurling his body into the flying foes, to claim as many as he could before falling to death.

He achieved his vent only a moment later, seeing a darkling approaching Britta from behind. Yanking his second sword from the holster on his back, he cleaved it apart in an eye blink on the draw. Britta thumped his back with an elbow when she saw the parts of it fly past her, quickly combusting.

"_Rally!"_ he roared finally, in Vrykul. He had learned that word recently from the many war games. Maldrid and Helgrin, bleeding but alive, both heard, though they spared no glance for him. Drekthac grasped the reigns in his left hand, holding his massive sword between knee and chest, and felt like a fool as he commanded Coralhide to bank back towards the many body of val'kyr. It led the charge into the backs of those still advancing.

"_Rally!" _the val'kyr cried in turn, squeezing together to eliminate the black from their ranks, and the booming voice of Hilda gave them center. Spear-Wives, they were called. Ladies of the Spear. Though not Ymirjar, the val'kyr lived among them, observed the strategies and genius of the realm's finest champions and heroes. Given solace now, they formed up in files.

Two high and many thick, the val'kyr became. The darklings could no longer gain purchase against them, swarming around at all sides. Like wolves the darklings bled them and harried them, attacking from flanks, hamstringing from behind, yet the force of them was inpenetrable, defensive – delaying.

Meanwhile, the harpooners took advantage of the enemy being forced to the outside the body of the val'kyr. They skewered them from the air, sending them tumbling out of the sky. Masterful shots, all of them, between experience and vrykul technologies. In short order, it was over, with the val'kyr – surrounded by proto-drakes now – none the worse.

As the final darkling fell from the sky, claimed by arrows and the vengeful spell-bolt of Hilda, they took up cheer, celebrating the victory and war. A glorious foe had been bested this day.

While Britta hooted and hollared from behind Drekthac, waving her bow about, he aimed them for the gate, intending to continue the fight. He stopped in the air when he noticed that it was already over. The gate had been retaken, and upon it were cheering and chanting vrykul. The death song and war songs rose up, as Drekthac realized the aerial battle had been the last to finish.

But one point stood out among the hordes. Vrykul were dark figures, always in iron, furs, and other blackened garb. Among the wall was one who shone more brilliantly than the val'kyr. The white around it stood as a beacon, luminous, as it raised a sword above its head and called attention upon its diminutive self. Drekthac recognized the figure alright: the White Lady stood upon the top of the wall, center of a dozen corpses.

It was then he noticed three val'kyr closing around him, at the sides. Britta's excited, lustful voice broke into quick chatter to Helgrin. He didn't try to translate it, noticing Freydis to his left. Her attention was on Balinda as she intoned, "More than ever, we are certain: the White Lady carries the soul of a Ymirjar. Have you told her of her call to Valhalas?"

"Not bloody yet," he said. He noticed a white-winged val'kyr approaching his slave. No matter her armor, the visible thong told him enough of her identity.

Freydis explained, "Hilda has suggested we hold her trials now. Suggestions from Hilda are not to be ignored." The two below spoke to each other, not nearly close enough to be heard, as they watched on.

XxX

"Take the gate!"

Balinda heard the Dragon's bellow, as one of the only Common announcements in the confusion. From the chatter of the val'kyr above, she assumed them to be repeating it. Her focus remained forward, taking the plan to heart, letting Ymirjar attention slide off her in favor of their hate for the darklings. She was ignored, even when calling brilliant blessings and motes of Light around her.

Once she reached the front lines, seeing the Dragon already deep in the throes of the enemy while the Ymirjar pushed after him, Balinda noticed the val'kyr screaming something else, sounding panicked. Her narrow focus did not change when shadows flew over her head, knowing she could do nothing about flying foes.

In the final few paces before her first engagement, Balinda did notice the val'kyr were not intoning the names of the legends who fell here. It was different from the skirmishes with Malthon, far more intent and ruthless, about butchering not glorifying. Seeing the identity of the attack – a host solely of eyeless Skinless – Balinda realized why, and she noticed the efficiency in which the enraged Ymirjar machine was tearing through them.

Drekthac passed her by without notice, running towards the Ymirjar body. The thought barely passed through her head, as she reached the Skinless he left behind. The Light guided her blade, her body, using all the skill and finesse she had honed through her years. Tentacles, legs, and other extremities were severed by quick sweeps of her blade, not slowing her momentum. Her shield rose as she spun, blocking something effortlessly and without looking, and then she plunged her blade into the gut of a foe, whipping it out an instant later to find the next.

The Light remained steady within her, unlike their first encounter with this foe. It was startling how, as their engagements continued and the paladins continued to overcome the Sightless, the Light seemed to grow emboldened, as if it was _learning._ The sentience of the Light was a matter long in debate, but given its ability to see into the future, to guide those who sought it to right and purpose, never had the Light wavered in confidence, not even if it was that time for the servant of the Light to spill his blood.

Though Balinda wished to leave such thoughts to theorists, the Archbishop, and other scholarly figures in the Light, she couldn't help but wonder if something of this foe blinded the Light from its intended future, leaving it uncertain, and now it watched over them personally, by each individual rather than the whole.

The sunburst of warmth Balinda felt within, following that thought, nearly sent a startled shock through her, but her arms continued unabated in slaying her foes.

"White Lady!" a rumbling vrykul voice roared, sounding elated. Several others took it up, and then the Skinless pressing behind her, trying to have her surrounded, were smashed away by the sudden horde of Ymirjar following her. Light, but they were massive, even for vrykul – even for Ymirjar!

The vrykul who followed her then stood nearly fourteen feet tall each, thick as orcs, and seemed to trust their own thick skin more than armor. They carried long, heavy two-handers she doubted three humans could carry if working together. With single sweeps of those, the Skinless were sent scattered, many crushed on the spot, and... Light, but were all four of them identical brothers?

Balinda did not bother trying to kill the Skinless. She incapacitated them, cutting off limbs in passing, and built up forward momentum for them, approaching the Gates of Ymirheim. Those one-man siege engines behind her, those behemoths, finished off the wounded Skinless as easily as they could smash open iron gates.

Faced with several leaping at her at once, Balinda rolled aside, coming up to strike down the one following – though its deceptive tentacles tried to stop her, the Light guided her wrist, and her sword plunged in at an awkward, if utterly effective, angle unhindered. A burst of warning spun Balinda, backpedaling now with her shield up, as black thorns tinged off her shield like throwing knives. She stopped when her back touched cold wood.

They had reached the Gates!

Looking for the ramp or ladder up, Balinda realized there were none. Vrykul-sized platforms were spaced far enough that even vrykul must reach or leap to grasp the next before pulling themselves up. No one but vrykul could get up there.

The siege-breaking brothers reached her, sizzling blood still dripping from their maces and axes, and they roared victoriously, putting their backs to the wall to face the remaining horde. Only a few Skinless still poured in from the open gate to their left.

As they readied themselves to fight again, one brother abruptly stumbled forward, and they could see a smaller eyeless fiend clinging to his back with long claws, teeth gnashing for his thick bull neck. It had leapt down from the heights of the Gates. Once they wrestled the darkling off, smashing it in a heavy blow and kicking it away before it could explode acidic viscera on them, Balinda shouted to them:

"I need to get on top!"

They looked her, blinking stupidly. Men!

Jumping in her armor for reference, Balinda pointed to the top of the Gates. The brothers looked up, shielding their eyes to the brighter Northrend sky – the sun was not quite breaching the clouds, but it cast a bright outline. One seemed to get it – thank the Light – and he slapped his brothers' shoulders, saying something in that nearly-Dwarven Vrykul language.

At once, they all grinned, and two turned to face the horde again, watching their backs, while the others approached Balinda. She felt a nervous twinge, just before their meaty hands grabbed at her waist and heaved her off the snow. Barely, she bit back a cry of surprise, while the Light flooded her with a sudden rush of comfort.

_What are they-_

The two brothers threw her. Balinda's head whipped at the strength those two, hearing a rush of wind around her as she plummeted _upwards_. She wanted to keep her eyes closed against the sickening sensation, but the Light urged her to open them, and she did to see a Skinless falling down, in reach to flay her apart.

She prayed a Divine Shield around her, lettings its claws scrape by harmlessly, then found her momentum ending for a cold moment of suspension, now cresting the top of the _bloody Gates_ by a good five feet. Clawing and kicking the air like her first time trying to swim, Balinda felt herself approaching that rampart, and she landed on her feet, stumbling towards a group of three eyeless Skinless, alone.

_Light!_

The object of her complaint lifted her hand, however, and Balinda felt a change to the Holy Shock she sent their way. Instead of burning rays, a wave of force flung all three backwards, over the far edge of the wall. Her fist gripped her sword hilt tighter as she noticed others already approaching, cackling in raspy voices.

Malthon, forgive her, for she suspected she would not live through this assault.

Her aegis felt too heavy, even with the Light's fortitude. Balinda let it slide off her wrist, the buckles loose where they needed to be, then gripped her blessed sword with both hands. Her Divine Shield flickered out. They came.

"_Swordplay, dear, is a bit like dancing."_

This memory, now? Balinda watched it with her mind's eye, letting mindless instinct and the Light control her body as she reached the first Skinless.

A young Balinda had frowned at the comment, then asked her mother, _"Dancing? What would you know about fighting, mother?"_

"_Grace, my child, and not just that which the Light has offered us. To live as a noble is a dangerous life, and the wife of a Crowngarde is always a target. We must be strong and able, while the Lord Crowngarde is away, to defend ourselves as if he were here in body."_

So young and foolish then, Balinda was, as she grew excited enough to bounce in place and clap. _"So you can fight too, mother? Oh, do show me, please!"_

"_I shall, my child. But to understand how to match men in the games of arms, you must first learn to move as a dancer does. So come, dear, and dance with me."_

Balinda danced, both then as a child and now. It was much later that her mother told her that an elven blade mistress had taught her swordplay, and Balinda had learned that style – adopted its state of mind, truly – from her mother, before she learned the sword forms from her father. The ways of steel, of a Crowngarde, along with her training in the churchyard as a paladin.

Men, warriors, they took to foes like hammers to anvils. They smashed and crushed them in heavy blows, testing strength against strength. Women could not do the same. They were not the same physically. No, they had other advantages, in natural limberness and fluidity. Why parry when a simple step aside cleared her from harms way? Why swing where you knew an opponent could block?

It was a game of dancing, a swift game of step and counting. Balinda struck when she was certain of a score, even mild ones, always bleeding and debilitating what she was faced against. The Light gave her awareness of every direction, and always she remained one step above her foes. She knew this dance better than they.

Dip in, pry out. Spin, bow, sweep, and rise. Step, step, clap. Step, step, clap. The crescendo-! Her sword buried deep in the chest of a Skinless, and Balinda forced her body to move as it had not in years, dropping in the splits just in time to avoid the sweeping blows of behind. She drove aside, rolling smoothly, while her hand snagged her sword back in time, and she spun to her feet and faced the group in time to avoid the following explosion.

Balinda knew this dance so painfully well. She was a Crowngarde. She was a paladin, a lady, a defender, a warrior. An upholder. Her place was not to guide the blind or embolden the meek. Judgment and retribution, those were her marks, her sigil. In a world were atrocities like the Scourge were commonplace, she had been called as an upholder to defend what was right by destroying what was not.

Unlike the Scarlet zealots, she knew restraint, proper judgment, and compassion. The Light must guide her hand, not her heart or mind, for only one of those was free of bias or deception. It had spared Baelin Drekthac when she had wished him dead, and it had taken Malthon when she wanted him where he was. Its plan, not hers.

A burst of frustration clenched within Balinda's chest, and she nearly screamed as she took the opportunity to behead the Skinless before her. It's claws raked her breastplate, too late to stop her, and while still panting, she kicked the convulsing body off the ramparts with her heavy boot.

Balinda spun, sword up, seeing the twirl of her blue cloak as she prepared to defend herself against the next foe. There were no more. Rays of Light spilled around her, illuminating her place and much around her. Across the ramparts, the only figures were the vrykul, including some she recognized as the behemoths that had thrown her up there.

With the snapping explosion of that last blind beast, heard echoing up from over the edge of the wall, the only noise came from the violent clash in the air. The val'kyr had formed a hovering cube of spears, all angled outward, while the drake riders encircled them, grappling and engaging the hornet's nest of Skinless that encircled the square ranks. Harpooners from the buildings and now wall, combined with archers and spell-weavers on the ground, dropped them from the sky like flies.

Soon it was over, and around her, the vrykul took up cheer. Balinda felt the same elation, standing there among the hollow-exploded corpses of ten Skinless, holding only her sword. With them, she raised it and cheered. The hulking brothers noticed her, cheering louder. It was a roar of victory, of the winning side – against hundreds of _eyeless _Skinless.

It was then Balinda realized the awesome power of the Ymirjar, and she knew Malthon needed their support in the war. The champions of every age, held together in one city – heroes like those the Ashbringer took into the Citadel, those who laid low the Beast of a Thousand Maws, those who slew the Betrayer. It was a force not unlike Malthon's army of full paladins.

"White Lady," a voice addressed, one both wanton and formal. Balinda beheld an armored val'kyr, her overlapping plates more covering than the usual (and scandalous) winged breastplate, and her smooth face-mask was marred by engraved runes. Thick, painted lips were set with amusement.

As the roaring crowd began to quite, Balinda noticed the attention on her. This val'kyr commanded a different presence, even among the Ymirjar. Was she not a servant of them? Nearly, Balinda wished she had participated in Drekthac's conversations. Was she to face justice for taking up arms, rebellious to her position? A stroke of divine irony, she realized, that she should be the one to face justice. Perhaps this was her purpose here, to martyrdom herself like this, yet prove the worth of the humans to the Ymirjar.

The Light remained warm and comforting within.

This val'kyr spoke: "I fear Drekthac the Immortal, in his bullheaded way, has neglected to tell you a matter of honor concerning you. Where there may have been doubt before, you banished it in taking up arms here. Word of the White Lady and her combat prowess has spread through vrykul lands, and your name has passed the tongues of many warriors and those who watch warriors. Now, you have been summoned to the greatest of vrykul battle pits: Valhalas, to undergo the trials of worthiness."

"To die there?" Balinda found herself asking. That was to be her execution, death in spectated battle? The name was familiar, however. Valhalas...

The val'kyr laughed, the sound soft as velvet. "Should you fail. Succeed, and you will have proved yourself worthy of combat within the sacred confines of Valhalas." It struck Balinda then, where she had heard that. Those proven worthy of combat within Valhalas... were worthy of passing the gates she stood upon. "Prove your worth, White Lady, and you join your brothers and sisters of Ymirheim, to have your name renowned for ages to come."

_Oh, Light._

"If I refuse the call?" she questioned. The Light admonished her, and Balinda felt a chastised chill sweep past her spine. She was meant to fight there. And win? To _join_ these people?

"Then you remain a slave to Baelin Drekthac." There was suggestion to her words, of the mistake in staying here. "The time has come to decide, White Lady. Will you remain a slave, or will you prove yourself as something worthy?"

Balinda turned away from the regal val'kyr, pacing along the wall with hundreds of eyes upon her. She saw Drekthac, on his proto-drake, with his val'kyr beside him. She recognized the massive Ymirjar brothers whom had fought with her. She saw the harpooners on their towers and longhouse roofs, the banded val'kyr, the forces on the ground. All of them watched her at that moment.

The Light opened her mouth. "I fight for King Malthon!" Balinda felt fierce passion as she shouted, hoping that her words now could pierce the thick skulls of these blighted brutes. "We humans, we small ones, offer the Ymirjar alliance, to fight together in the bloodiest, most glorious war Azeroth has seen in an age! The honor of combat here, now, is not to belong to any one name! Ymirheim, Jotunheim, Stormwind, Lordaeron – all have their claim in this war!

"If you doubted our skill and strength, you have met us already on the field of battle! If you doubted our valor and honor, you have seen me fight here, for your city! If you doubt our stake in this war, you have seen them siege our walls! If you doubt your own stake in this war, you have seen them take the Gates of Ymirheim from you! They took your Gates, from the Ymirjar! And you have seen me fight to assist in reclaiming it!

"And if you doubt our hearts, as humans, you will see me undergo the trials of worth in the ring of Valhalas! The Dragon, Drekthac the Immortal, is but one human, and you will see that we are not so different! Fight with my King, Ymirjar, and you will see that the glory of this war can be shared between our peoples, and we will crush whomever was foolish enough to strike these walls and kill your val'kyr! Fight with the Fool King of Northrend, Ymirjar, and you will find glory for ages to come!"

With the final heave of words, Balinda felt her strength – and the Light – leave her. She slumped, exhausted, and now worried at the absence of the Light's hand. Had that been her purpose, this speech? Would she perish in Valhalas? No answer reached her. She noticed the armored val'kyr, smirking in a satisfied way, call a proto-drake over.

As it landed on the ramparts beside her, that powerful val'kyr told her, "The arbiters will accompany you to the battle pit, and they will explain both the rules and your rights." Balinda sheathed her sword and attached her shield to her back again, then mounted the drake. "May your blade feast in the coming day, White Lady."

The amused Scourge harpy sent her off, and Balinda noticed many val'kyr leave the huddle to escort her flight. To Valhalas, she flew.

XxX

"So, Baelin, what do you propose the Ymirjar do next?" Hilda asked, stopping her flight before him on Coralhide. Freydis had departed with the other Arbiters, leaving him with only Britta and Maldrid at the parting of Balinda.

His replying grunt was amused. "I don't know about the rest of the clan, but I'm off to see what the Fool King intends with the darklings. And I won't be appeased until the one who leads them lies broken before my blades."

That loathsome val'kyr "queen" gained a wide smile. He mentally scoffed at her dress: armored body, yet still showing off cleavage, and her leg plates only reached upper thigh, leaving her ass and front covered only by the cloth thong. With sly tones, she pressed, "And will your thirst for appeasement persist through death, Ymirjar? Will you take with you Maldrid, to continue her duties away from home?'

Gods, this was the moment she had planned for. Drekthac had the choice of publicly throwing his support behind her plan, urging the Ymirjar machine to continue to war with the protection of the val'kyr, or to remain with tradition, to allow the champions who died in the coming war to find the rest they had sought. Yet, unlike how he foresaw this moment, she left the choice to him. No deceptions, no tricks, no persuasion.

Hilda's choice in that, to trust him to decide, was perhaps the most persuasive incentive of it all, for Drekthac felt an obligation of honor to reward her turn from trickery. "You are gods damn right I will take Maldrid! I will not allow myself to enter Valhal without the skulls of a thousand darklings to pave the way! I could not bear the shame of meeting my brothers and sisters without the head of the darkling's master bouncing at my hip! No, I will not rest until the day I see my foe shattered, broken, and enslaved by my strength!"

Clever, simple Britta behind him was silent, but he could hear Helgrin repeating his words in Vrykul to her. His friend would realize the significance of what he was saying, the turn from tradition – certainly none of the clan slain at this battle would be raised from the dead – yet she did not speak for or against him.

The silence bit at Drekthac, reminding him of the wrong he was suggesting. Hilda, smiling still, could had led him right into this trap, to leave him dishonored and scorned by the clan, cutting off his perceived leadership and wringing him dry. With a beat of her wings, she spun in the air to face the rest of the horde, and she bellowed in sweet Vrykul, _"And for you, Ymirjar! Will you rest before you find the glory in defeating this foe? After seeing them strike at your city, seeing them slay your handmaidens instead of warriors, will you lay low only a score and say, "I have done well!" Could you face your brothers in Valhal with that death?"_

Yes, they could, Drekthac knew. That was the way of the Ymirjar – had these enemies any honor, they could undergo the trials of worthiness themselves. In its place, the Ymirjar would gladly die to these worthy foes. Yet, the offer to stay alive was tempting. A dishonor had been cast this day, and it was within a vrykul's right to see it repaired, through death if needed. Not the Ymirjar way, but it was a vrykul way.

Britta was the first to crumble to the demand, roaring hate and fury – and nothing else in that unintelligible shout. On the wall, on the other drakes, below them, on the towers, the rest of the Ymirjar took it up, bellowing and shouting their fury, not yet vanquished though no darkling remained. Drekthac remained silent during it, lips draw in a slight frown beneath his helmet.

Hilda faced him in the midst of it, and he could see the pleasure and victory at seeing her plan realized. Hela take her, but it was not even a gloat. Hilda regarded him fondly in that moment, dipping her head in thanks, and then swooped by to rejoin her sister val'kyr.

Drekthac spat off the side of Coralhide, gripping the reigns tighter, but he noticed Maldrid had moved closer. She offered him his lost sword between her large hands. The blade was ruined by the blood of the darklings, bubbled by acid and stroked with deep furrows, but she had cleaned it before offering it to him now. He accepted it wordlessly, throwing it into the sheath against his back with the other.

In the lingering moment, still with many vrykul roaring, she questioned, "My liege?"

"Yes?" he demanded, unintentionally sharp.

"Thank you."

Drekthac grunted, quieter. Vrykul did not thank people. It was a heavily underused gesture, because it wounded pride – thanking for aid meant that aid was either needed or preferred, signs of weakness and dependance. He would not dishonor her further by making a point of it, but he kept her gesture in mind.

Absent of both Balinda and Freydis now, Drekthac felt he needed a strong drink. And a good fucking lay. The beds of Ymirheim would see much use this night, after so many of the clan were called into true and honest combat. It was the victors' right, and Maldrid was right here.

He stopped himself from asking her to his bed. She still had her task to accomplish first; he wouldn't dishonor either of them by discarding it. Yet, from the look she was giving him, it was clear she had something to say. His attention returned to her, and upon noticing, Maldrid opened her mouth, "My liege-"

"_Forgive me, Spear-Wife,"_ Britta's pleasant voice interrupted, _"but the day has been bloody, and I have feasted well. My shield-brother and I will be retiring to the Hall of Heroes."_

"_Of course, Ymirjar,"_ Maldrid agreed immediately, bowing her head. She turned to the west and began to fly, with Helgrin accompanying her.

Drekthac frowned at the interruption, but he certainly noticed Britta squeeze her hips closer to him, and the way her strong, long arms reached around him to take the reigns from his hands. She guided Coralhide to the same direction.

With his right arm still ruined at the elbow, Drekthac allowed her command, but he asked in Vrykul, _"Plan?"_

Britta sounded amused. _"You don't fight with female vrykul often, do you?"_ She stuck with Vrykul, leaving her voice and words far smoother than her attempts at Common. He frowned though, while still removing his helmet with one hand. Once it was off, he felt her lean down to him, breath touching his ears despite the wind of their flight. _"I saved your life, you saved mine, and we shared our glory. Tonight, we'll drink, we'll sing, and then we'll celebrate as champions do, when the moons are high. You understand, aye?"_

Drekthac supposed he did, once he had it all translated. The night just might end better than he expected after all.


	20. Chapter 18: The Light and the Dragon

Chapter 18

_The Light and the Dragon_

* * *

X Fool King X

The water may as well have been tapped from the Frozen Sea itself, with aesthetic ice blocks floating within. Malthon Eyenhart, also called King, dipped himself inside it mindlessly, letting the sensation and shock of the freezing water roll over him, dunking even his head beneath its line.

Only a bath at this time. Malthon had requested the absence of heated water, saving his attendant from work, and though the man still simpered over the request, he abided by the King's wishes. The Light would refuse to allow Malthon harm within the arctic tub; once again, he was learning the lines between his will and its coincidence with the Light's own. He'd remember something and leave before he could reach hypothermia.

Surfacing again, Malthon was struck with sensation of water drizzling from his beard. It had become unkempt. Balinda would chew his hide over that, if she saw, yet it was precisely that reason he had allowed it to reach that point. Balinda, she was no longer among them. Taken by the Ymirjar, taken by the Dragon – and she spurred his attempt to rescue him, desired the company of the human called the Immortal.

The loss had hit Malthon swifter and stronger than he could have expected. He had never in his life felt so lost as he did in recent weeks. He got by on instinct alone, using the merit of the Light to make his kingly decisions. For the first time in his life, he had realized that the Light did have a purpose for him: it guided him, sure as any paladin, but with a hand so finely tuned to his personality and nature, grooming him to his great purpose.

The Light had groomed him. For what _purpose_, Malthon sought to ask, but the cold silence always returned him. Casting his thoughts back to his life, now as he had before, he saw nothing exceptional earned from his actions. Lordaeron had fallen, most refugees had perished, and it was not him alone who saw to the fall of the Lich King. Yet, the puppeteer behind his every action still tugged the strings, still protected him from any fatal harm in the world.

Protecting him, guiding him, grooming him. He was sat on a path of purpose, sheltered like a... like a bloody weapon, to be unleashed at just the right moment. And who was he aimed upon? The master of the Skinless? Certainly, that seemed the current shift of fates. Malthon was king now, and he knew... he knew, no matter his desires, that he would never be allowed to pass away that crown while he lived.

His father's deep voice spoke then, from a memory: _"Yes, my son, you have come far. The Light moves mountains for your will, and you have shaped finely to your duties as an Eyenhart. But that is not all you must learn. Come, sit – and you as well, miss Balinda; I will not separate you from your fiance, and these are words that must reach both ears."_

There was pain in this recollection. A beautiful hurt, of sunny days and a future spoken in bright tones, now so long burnt to ash, with the rest of the cities and land. Eighteen-year-old Malthon and a delightful, round-cheeked Balinda had sat at the outdoor table with Lord Eyenhart. Malthon remembered the glance he had given his betrothed then, still two years from their uniting ceremony, not knowing that in half that time, it would be called off in the wake of Lordaeron's sacking.

The brown of her immaculate hair had been pristine then, without a single speck of silver. Always, she kept that finely brushed, and under her bangs were vibrant, intelligent green eyes, lively as the trees overhead. That button nose of hers, above pink lips he fantasized about kissing – well, she _was_ going to be his wife soon enough, he had justified to himself.

At the present, Malthon dipped himself back under the icy water, feeling it like fingers of the dead clinging at his face, until he was smothered by them. Numb, he continued the memory:

"_As you both know, all high nobility – excepting your family, Balinda – must be prepared to accept the crown of the King of Lordaeron, should they ever be called to serve the Kingdom so."_ Lord Eyenhart had snorted after that, dismissing the possibility entirely, but he shrugged as he accepted a goblet of wine from Mister Black, their butler. _"The chance is as fat as Bussy, but I will do my part in your education."_

Bussy, their prized cow at the Eyenhart Estates. Rather than eat her, they had planned on breeding her for a whole stock of beefy calves. Balinda had scoffed, and Malthon remembered his shock when her foot playfully touched his beneath his father's attention.

"_Hardly necessary, Lord Eyenhart," _the playful Balinda had said then, _"I'm the sole heir of Lord Crowngarde, so once Malthon and I marry, he will be exempt of the crown."_ Then the slanted, challenging look she sent his way, _"Unless this lummox has ambitions that run deeper than our marriage."_ The reminder had Malthon grin, and Balinda's bright eyes sparkled as she returned it.

Lord Eyenhart's laughter was deep and bassio, and he shook his head, _"So it is, but as you know, the Eyenhart line has always stood as leaders, if not as political as the royal family. When my father sat me down here, like this, with your mother on my lap- that is, at my side... oh, stop that!"_ Malthon's father had complained at the laughter of them, and the raised eyebrow Malthon had for Balinda. She swatted his arm, entirely unladylike, but the churchyard had taught them informal mannerisms.

"_Continuing,"_ Lord Eyenhart growled over them, _"when my father sat us here, I had found the talk to be insightful, about the duties of the King, and one day, may it never come, it might prove essential for the sake of our people."_

So he had spoken. Malthon remembered it all, every word and trait of a ruling king. It was a political world, one of shifting forces – and the difference was the King was one who could push more influence than the rest. Lord Eyenhart, in their conversation, had taught him the importance of respect, honor, and loyalty to the crown from the people. Discipline and code could not be ignored for royalty, and Malthon learned why.

That one conversation alone, over its many hours, ensured Malthon's indifference to such ambitions. To be a good king was both work and an act – Malthon called those two together a mantle – that could not be dropped except with only the most precious of friends, and even _then,_ as his father had confirmed over political marriages, there was not even the certainty of trust in domestic life. Worst still was the evidence that sometimes the "right" decision... did not always involve a right action. It was like warfare: there were no flawless victories. The trick was to minimize losses, not eliminate them.

Yet that was not all Malthon's mind wished to show him. Still submerged, unsure of how long he'd been without air, he saw the vision stretch further, to when Lord Eyenhart left he and Balinda, with the sun now glittering oranges through the tree leaves. The sun had nearly set by the end of that chat.

The two youths remained silent for nearly a full minute, until Balinda had stood from her chair and offered him her hand. _"Follow me,"_ she told him. So Malthon did, because it was she who asked.

Balinda worked them to a run, pulling and pulling his hand until they were sprinting around the side of the estates, letting the evening breeze wash the heat of the fading sun from their skin. The iron gate she led him to remained open, and they passed by unabated, chasing after the whimsical Balinda until she stopped all at once.

Pain clenched within Malthon's chest, and his lungs burned at the need for air. He knew what came next.

As the young Malthon approached his fiancee, she spun quickly, jumping before him to catch him in strong arms. The churchyard had done wonders to her strength, and though it was mostly he who caught the weight of their collision, she remained stout through it, until she turning them in tight embrace, laughing. Two cycles she spun them, then released him to behold the estate gardens.

"_Why here?"_ he had asked her, with an arm still around her waist as they approached an apple bough.

Charming Balinda took an apple from the tree, one both juicy and dark crimson, and with eyes upon its depths, she said, _"It's supposed to give me luck."_

"_Trying to tempt me, are you?"_ he inquired, skeptical. Stern Balinda would be last to turn from the Light, between them two. Righteous, beautiful – and bloody _strict_ – Balinda.

Smiling, she took a bite into the apple, quickly wiping the juices from her chin as she chewed. She said, _"I want you to promise me something, Malthon."_

Her hand, callused much like his, yet still so dainty and feminine, offered him the once-bitten apple. He noticed the green lacquer that colored her fingernails, remembering her disdain for the practice in the churchyard, then turned away from her. His arms went behind his back, copying the stance he often saw from his father. The paladins of their order disdained the image, but Malthon always saw a regal-ity to the look; they called him a fool for it, should he be wearing a cloak at the time.

He wasn't then, in that simple yet flawless tunic, and he wished to seem bigger than he was, before Balinda. She could make him almost _shy_ sometimes; none had a tongue sharper, or a mind keener, or an eye more able to pick right from wrong, and though he thought himself often right – sought to do right, at least – Balinda always seemed able to find a fault, should she wish.

Inspecting an orchid, he asked mildly, _"And what might that be, future wife?"_

Though he could not see her face, Malthon knew what smile she held there for him. A thrum of Light first pulled then pressed against his soul, and he knew her to be satisfied, happy, or otherwise elated. That was a game they had begun playing, to manipulate the Light and let the other feel it, to communicate feelings without words. It had become reflex, and he was sure she didn't even notice.

He heard the scrape of the brick path as the stones shifted beneath heavy boots. One step, then two, closer to him, before Balinda announced earnestly, _"I want you to promise me, my Lord Eyenhart, that should a day come that the crown is offered to you, that you will reject it without second thought or hesitation."_

Malthon huffed a laugh, but kept the sound from her. In jest, he said with mock pension, _"I may be the next Thoradin of the Arathor, able to unite all the humans to one banner again. You would have me deny now, without knowing the details or terms of the request, may that day never come?"_

Something had crashed against the back of Malthon's head, and he yelped as he stumbled forward, nearly into the orchid, and he saw the apple rolling by him, now dirty. He shot Balinda a withering look, while she laughed, and those twinkling eyes just did him in as they always did. He could never be angry or frustrated with her, and he supposed he shouldn't have jested.

"_We both know you'd make an awful King, Malthon. Like your father said, there will be times you must make decisions that will produce good but are not right, and you would kill yourself trying to find another way. This request is selfish, but it's for the good of us both: I keep my future husband, and you stay the Malthon I love."_

"_Sounds like the victory is twice in your favor,"_ Malthon had grunted sourly, but she could feel the thrum of Light pass her way from him. It was inevitable, whenever either spoke of love or the certainty of their marriage. He felt so blessed to be betrothed to this one. He could not recall a single moment of reluctance about their arranged marriage, from childhood on.

Now, she was asking him for a promise, and he knew that, because it was Balinda asking, she would have it. _"I cannot predict the Light's plan for either of us, but I will be damned before I allow it or anything else separate us. I will not take up the crown of Lordaeron, now or ever. You have my promise."_

And the pulse of Light came from them both, meeting at the center, then reflected back for them both to feel.

Fifty miles east, halted in the midst of the morning meal and breaking her fast, a grown Balinda Crowngarde trembled at the conclusion of a memory, and the feelings she had once experienced.

Finally, Malthon broke free of the water's surface, and he heaved in a great breath of fresh air. His skin prickled and stung, and he recognized again just how awful the icy water of his bath was. Just as he was about to call his attendant for a towel, he felt a flame of caution from the Light. Nothing dangerous, but things were not as he expected.

Malthon wiped his eyes as his skin erupted into gooseflesh, and he resisted the urge to shiver pathetically. Peering about him, he saw his attendant prone on the floor, dead or asleep, near the cloth entrance of his private sanctum. A tent within a tent, for the king's bath. Two guards had been posted outside that flap, and another four before and around his main tent. From the silhouette he saw past the crème-colored cloth, both guards inside his tent were similarly disabled.

The movement of a shadow caught his attention, and he kept his arms on the edges of his tub. Malthon stared directly at the shadow, frowning, but a cold suspicion reached him. Surely, this was not... The veil of shadows dropped, and Malthon knew that it was. He closed his eyes and groaned, leaning back against the metal wall.

"Malthon..." a deceptively sweet, and so sultry, voice pressed against him. "Malthon Eyenhart..."

"You are testing my patience," he growled in return. The kaldorei woman, once again, now present even as they marched from the Shadow Vault.

A whisper of cloth touched his ears, sliding past flesh, and he debated the simplest way to go about his next course of action – and the Light knew it would not be _her_ idea of action!

"My experience with you has proven that to be a simple feat, and so its dangers have lost merit," the voice returned, in the same tone, accent, and suggestion, yet so clear now. Malthon felt it was hardly worth mention, but it did tell him she had stopped at just the far end of his tub, and he could feel the stir of water as her hand tested it. She continued, "The victory of the cold is overwhelming, where beating heart must also flood our channels of life with vapid rime. Let our senses know the heat of hearth, and passion, so silk and sail may be pleased and strong."

_Hm,_ Malthon thought to himself. Denell had been right; _Issielaro_ did not translate well to Common. Still, he recognized the brief words of magic she said next, just before the entire tub of water switched to heat. The abrupt change set Malthon's nerves afire, causing him to jump at the shock. For it, he nearly missed the strong wake of someone entering the tub with him.

Forcing himself to calm, Malthon said with his eyes still closed, "I hear you are quite the rhetorician, from the readers of your letter."

There was a pause of silence from her, and his eyes cracked to see just her head floating across from him, dark as the midnight sky both in skin and hair, yet with eyes bright in their silver. Her expression seemed scrunched with distaste. "Such thoughts were for my intended, not another. You shame me for what error?"

"Should have left it in a language I can bloody read, if I was the one intended to read it," Malthon replied, opening his eyes entirely. The water obscured their forms.

A dark eyebrow rose, and her smile showed her teeth. "Send your attention to my lips and tongue, and watch the flick, curve and ejaculation of all you see. Realize the disconnection between word and mouth, and know the nature of my spell. My tongue is gifted with many tricks."

Malthon pressed his own lips together for a pensive moment. "So a translation spell." Light, was it him, or had her explanation been one running sexual innuendo?

Her lips shifted next to an obvious pout at his reply, and her eyes seemed to regard him in new light. "Do you disdain the way of tongues, or does your species exalt those who are simple in manner? You speak like this, as if an artisan's brush has been taken up by a child. Why shy from the emulsion of the most intimate art, gifted from the highest medium of evolution?"

In his years of schooling, Malthon had learned elves took to speech in a manner different from humans, and Denell had confirmed that in their exchange – if this was the elven regard for language, Malthon wanted no part in it. Though noble, he had taken to the ways of war, not intellectual sophistication.

Not that he was stupid; he just felt there wasn't a need to overcomplicated simple things by phrasing alone. Albeit, here he was, still in a bath with a very naked kaldorei – perhaps he was wrong on the stupid part.

He spoke diplomatically, for her sake, "Short lived races invest their time and studies in matters deemed important. I reckon eighty years from womb to grave, so given that we can communicate with ease already, there are few who seek to master language in its entirety in face of a countless multitude of other fields, all relevant to the course of our race."

"Better," she seemed to admit grudgingly, "yet the courts would cringe at every line. Perhaps, our whole should be as an acorn. The beauty of the shell is its simplicity for its many fields of manner, yet its triumph is its rigidity, strong against all who seek its other half – the seed, the bearer and orchestrator of life that will be the tree, to shape itself as its mind wills, the artist and the secreter. Yes, I will speak simpler for you, Malthon Eyenhart."

"Great," he returned dryly. "So who are you, why are you here, and what did you do to my men?"

The kaldorei's smile was akin to that of a lioness, and she leaned forward to approach him in the wide tub, swimming closer. "When obscured but for ourselves, join me as Lysora Olivorae es sin'do Nightingale. Upon other eyes, summon upon the name Majestor Lysora Jaedreena Shroudfin." He drew himself in as she reached his feet, eyes shining. In reply, she only lifted herself higher in the water, exposing her chest down until her dark-skinned breasts crested the water line.

Before he could argue, she was already continuing, pressing closer, "I am here to begin relations with he of this band of arms, to share in your trials of the moving night. Your men, as you say, sleep now under Elune's divine fingertips, because their blood cannot boil for what they do not fully understand. Let the deception of beauty entrap them in their own imaginations, unknown to what only Malthon Eyenhart may elevate himself to."

Malthon assured himself that they only slept, but her reason had him grimace. If Balinda could see him now, she'd tan his hide from here all the way down to Valiance Keep – and back, to have him finish what he'd begun!

The cunning, tempting elf drifted ever closer, now nearing his chest, and he fought down rising panic. "I told you once and then again: whatever you are hoping for from me, you won't get it. I will not be seduced, and my focus will not deter from where I must go. You have not that power, be it in mind or spell, Lysora."

"I would hear it all from you, Malthon: Lysora Olivorae es sin'do Nightingale."

"Lysora Olivorae es sin'do Nightingale," Malthon repeated, bland, yet the night elf seemed to recoil in ecstasy. Her eyes closed in the pause, trembling once in the water with a sound like a purr. When the moonlight-silver orbs drew open, they were aflame with desire, all fixed on him.

Light, but what a look from a woman! Malthon was once familiar with eyes full of love, he'd seen devotion, and he had been subjected to the "come hither" appeals of the broads within a brothel, distasteful though his encounters there were. The raw, genuine lust he witnessed here touched even the core of Light within him, like a brush with silk – yet leaving smoky, burning tendrils behind.

There was power within one's name. The saying was repeated, most often among warlock circles, but mortals never really understood the meaning. Even now, Malthon could not see why, yet the influence and effects were clear here. He had to stop himself from saying it again, curious of her response to it, but he knew now to make it taboo. This was not right.

Lysora stood up within the tub in a single, graceful motion. Malthon could not help his eyes in the first instant of it, but then he remained fixed on her own eyes, oblivious to all else he might be able to see. That fleeting glance remained seared into his mind despite it:

The torchlight gave shape to her dark-skinned body. Golden droplets left her body like molten steel, flooding from every end of her slender shape in that instant of standing. The reed-thin body of night elf sentinels had been expanded upon with Lysora – the hips exaggerated farther, the breasts swollen – and it was clear she was not one of fighting, though the strong legs remained. The orange light reflected off her wet skin, giving her further depth, and he knew the tips of her nipples, the feminine arm from shoulder to elbow, and wrist. He knew the smooth stomach, without the definition of a strong core, and he knew where the rigid shell of ribs dipped in for that flat expanse.

Eyes upon hers now, he let the image fade from his mind, replacing it with intimate study of her silver eyes. They gleamed with their own luminescence, the silver and white dancing about like dyes in water, with her pupils remaining steady dots of white, with her dark lids nearly touching the top of those centers in their half-lidded appeal to him. He could hear the tinker of water drops returning to the tub from her body, and he could see the gleam of orange off her chin, throat, and upper chest despite his focus.

"You have my attention, my desire, and my demand, Lord Malthon Eyenhart," she told him, in a voice that did not sound of such a slender throat. The burning undertones, the guttural suggestion, within it seemed to grab Malthon's ears and tug him towards her. He had to confirm to himself that a spell wasn't involved! "The men witness to the thoughts of your letter will never know the realization of that fantasy, as you will now. Cast your attention upon my honest self, my lord – upon my unmasked face, my unclothed shape, and my open temple. Witness your sovereignty with a raised chin and ravenous mind, and _seize_ upon the tightness within your chest and decorate the brazen, sanctified grounds neath your thundering order!"

_What wits are about this one!_ wondered Malthon, mute in his shock. She seemed already in her fantasy, entangled in a knot of pleasure and yearning – the two so closely enter woven that a touch of one would rebound through the other. He had to stop this, before this trembling elf lost herself to these ideas.

"I will not," he told her, raising himself to be of equal footing. Icy Northrend air bit at him as the heated water spilled away from his body.

Eyes flashing, she countered with lips moving separate from the sounds, "You will."

Claws of psychic influence scraped at Malthon's mind, but they found no purchase against him. A woman who got what she wanted, Denell had warned. A conqueror. Malthon was no mindless lad, anchored by earthly pleasures; he lived with a purpose higher than himself, not to rule but to serve. He served his men by keeping them unified, guiding their direction and purpose. He kept the living and unliving from quarreling, to stand together for the good of mankind.

This poor elven noble, this ancient kaldorei, she knew not of mortals with his disposition. The kaldorei did not know paladins, the servants and warriors of the Light.

Their first touch was of hands, as Lysora reached for him and he caught her from trying. In short moments, her elation died in the realization that he was not swayed. Her long, elven eyebrows drew down with confusion, and even her back-reaching ears seemed to slump.

"Is it the woman?" she whispered. "With suspiring heart, your eyes look her way. I though you emboldened beyond your floundering after her, even expressing the words of regret."

"It is much more than that."

Silver eyes flicked back up to stare into his own. "Explain it to me."

Malthon did not yet release her hands. "I won't stand for this happening, not between myself and a stranger, and not even between myself and a friend. Pretending you have no ulterior motive, what you want here means nothing without love. It cheapens the bond that would be shared between and a man and his wife; it forms ugly counterfeits of it without substance."

"A political arrangement was my intent, for the benefits of us both," she replied. The expression of her face changed, suddenly very fey to Malthon. It was like the study of a bird. "Such rapports establish in time, and trust, and union."

A gentle smile touched Malthon's face. "And for me, they have. For another."

"The other," Lysora confirmed, still alien in her bearing. "Yet the embers of her hearth had grown cold, and for you there is no warmth, growth, body, or future in wait for you from her."

A flash of a furious face reached Malthon's mind, the sharp sting of a slap against his cheek. Total rejection, old bonds sundered completely, the immense, boundless wedge shoved between them by her calloused hands. "I know," he whispered.

The King and the Crowngarde had different roles to play, separate paths guided by the Light. There was hope for those paths to converge again – the reasons for ensnaring her in Ymirheim were very few – but it was clear to him, despite his own hopes, that the time to stand together with her was not yet to come.

And to think that hardly two months ago, he was entirely convinced he had moved beyond his ex-fiancee. Then they had met again on the frozen plains of Dragonblight.

The night elf before him opened her mouth again, but Malthon released her wrist to catch her lip with a finger, halting her words. "This, Lysora Olivorae es sin'do Nightingale, is rejection. Even the greatest of figures must face it eventually."

Flashing silver eyes gleamed brighter, and the lush lips spread into a pleased, nearly devious, smile. "This, my Lord Malthon Eyenhart, is love."

Lysora then... dissipated.

One moment, Malthon had his eyes upon her bright silver orbs, surrounded by a dark-skinned body glittering with light, and then the darkness melted away like it did before the light, until all he saw was the silver orbs, and with a blink, they vanished with the rest.

Water sloshed in the tub, filling sudden voids, and Malthon was left touching the air, naked and cold with his feet in a pool of heated water. He sighed into the empty room, recognizing that this one would find only hurt before the end. He did wish for better phrasing from her, however.

XxX

"The King is not to be disturbed presently!" Jayce announced loudly, standing belligerently between the entrance to the tent and the colossal form that was Overthane Ufrangsson.

It was not necessary for Malthon to see the grin that came to Ufrangsson's face; it was obvious to all who could hear. "I welcome a challenge, small one. Raise your blade, and we will let fate decide if your Fool King may be disturbed."

_Have things gone this far?_ Malthon wondered. Isolation was the natural state for him, after the severing of the Crowngarde from the crown. Yet, he still had a people to lead, and allies to remain within the graces of. Could a king afford meditations upon the Light, or must he be prepared for action at any call?

"Emit him, Jayce," Malthon called from his tent. Light, that he withdrawn this far, where his men must stand as a buffer between them. Men like Ufrangsson were not won through front men.

The towering vrykul had to bend low to enter the tent, grumbling as he did, until he could stand easier within, head nearly scraping the roof of the tent. Malthon remained seated on the ground, turning his eyes upward to meet the dark gaze of the vrykul. Hooking fingers under his belt, Ufrangsson snorted and said, "A lesson in strength is needed in that one. Respect is good, but not when done in foolish insistence."

"Principle is something to uphold against any odds or challenge. Not a single man beneath my flag would bend under threat of brute force, not even a simple tailor," Malthon told him. Urfangsson lifted his chin belligerently, but he also nodded. "What brings you personally, Overthane?"

"Honor," the vrykul answered. "Or perhaps you are asking after my news; control your ambiguous tongue, Fool King, if you wish to keep it." After a short, pensive pause, Malthon nodded agreement. He was starting to realize the threat-but-not in vrykul speech. "A messenger has arrived from home, relaying word of my city and my people. It appears that despite the absence of many of our warriors, we are hosting a Valhalas tournament, beginning today. The motions of the val'kyr were swift, without warning, and cause for consideration."

Malthon did not see the issue, but he offered his input: "Perhaps after the losses faced in the recent skirmishes, the Ymirjar seek to replenish their numbers."

Immediately, the boulder-sized head turned in decline. "Ymirheim and the Ymirjar clan are an idea, not a people. Should they be slain to the last man, the val'kyr Arbiters will proceed apace, selecting only the most worthy warriors to undergo the trials of Valhalas. This cannot change."

"Then what is your concern?"

"I have assumed it to mean the Arbiters are eager to see this one raised exalted, yet it is confirmed from three reports that the combatant is of the small races, not even vrykul. The situation reeks of Ymirjar plotting, and in these uror days, these times of Wyrd, where Ymirjar leave their paradise for war, I wish to keep loyal men close at hand."

"Sounds like the Dragon has himself a friend," Malthon mentioned neutrally.

"Aye." Ufrangsson's dark eyes glittered maliciously, but his attention seemed inward, mulling over the possibilities. "In two days, we will reach the first spines of what you call Storm Peaks. I am not keen on opening our offensive with Ymirjar blades poised at our backs."

"Nor am I, but they are not a presence that will simply vanish. Perhaps that swarm that struck at their walls yesterday will hold them from action for at least another day."

A frightful evening that had been, seeing the hordes of Skinless from the far distance, angling directly towards Ymirjar peak in the south. The aerial host that warded it would have proven painful against their forces. Malthon's paladin army was not one for ranged combat. The movement of that black mass had been abuzz around their scouts, both vrykul and human.

"We can hope, Fool King, but the fates have already been decided. We must face what we have been dealt, and plan with all caution for it."

"Agreed."

The musings of the two were interrupted by a sharp, "Halt, in the name of the King!" Jayce, stopping another visitor.

"That one needs a tighter leash," Ufrangsson muttered darkly.

Malthon agreed but said, "He wishes to ensure my privacy, but that is a luxury I can no longer afford."

The vrykul leader regarded Malthon with a long stare before nodding. "A sound head is on your shoulders, Fool King. I look forward to the bonds that might form between our peoples. I should add, do not lament the choice of your woman to remain with the Ymirjar. There is much honor and glory to it, even as captive."

Malthon covered his grimace by calling Jayce off from the visitor. "There is far more to her choice than that."

"_You mean as much to me as a king does to a Crowngarde."_ Balinda could not lie to Malthon, nor he to her. They could always tell if the other tried. In that one sentence, the words lacked the ring of truth, but the turbulent emotion behind it was painfully genuine: betrayal. Salt was rubbed into the wounds with her following: _"Exactly as you wanted!"_

Malthon had asked himself a dozen times since why the coronation had hurt her so dearly. It was Balinda's own choice to end their relationship, so when he became a king to keep their men united, why did losing the option of romance affect her? She must first still care for him, which she had certainly demonstrated otherwise. Even their relationship as friends had been a damaged, strained rapport.

"My king!" the scout addressed upon entering the tent. The flap closed behind him, and he froze mid-salute when he noticed the enormous pillar of vrykul also present. Quickly, the man shook off his surprise, facing Malthon. "I'm returning from a deep south reconnaissance, and I bring... grave news."

Deep south. Ymirheim. Ufrangsson and Malthon shared a look. To the lad, Malthon said, "Well, speak up. What has happened?"

The scout took a moment long to compose himself, drawing a deep breath, and then he announced, "The vrykul clan of Ymirheim has gathered itself for war, and it has left its dreadgate in... my liege, I believe in full force. Hundreds march carrying rations, weapons, and mounts burdened with supplies to last long terms. The val'kyr harpies and scores of proto-drakes line the skies above them, and the they march to this location."

Overthane Ufrangsson broke into a loud rant of curses, spat in the Vrykul tongue. Malthon felt ready to jump to his feet, yet any sense of panic was absent from his gut. He pressed curiosity against the Light, but only a trickle of power returned it, strengthening him.

"Can you still run, lad?" Malthon asked, though the paladin wasn't truly much younger than him. With fear giving his eyes white rings, the man nodded. "Then I need you to rally my commanders to the war tent. Lord Commander Goldwind, Lord Terichon, Commander Jake, and any officer you can spot within a reasonable amount of time. What estimate do you have for Ymirjar arrival?"

"Sir! Had they been a normal force, perhaps twelve hours. But Ymirjar, they could be here in two."

Ufrangsson spoke, growling, "Messenger, find my thanes and Vagrim. Send them to the tent as well."

"Obey the Overthane," Malthon ordered swiftly. The paladin nodded and saluted, then ducked out of the tent.

While Malthon began to push himself to his feet, his vrykul ally mentioned, "The dragon knuckles have been cast, Fool King. Let us see what fate lies before us."

Trust in the Light.

X Ymirjar X

Coralhide screeched yet another complaint about being grounded. Drekthac paid it no mind, remaining seated in the saddle with his body rolling at each reaching step of the proto-drake. With each beat of his heart, a vrykul-sized mace beat against his temples, drilling into his head with hangover, yet not even that mental agony could erase or mask the pains of his body. His swords and armor remained strapped to the saddle – hilts in reach for draw, but gods forbid he would need to exert that much movement.

With a deep set frown on his face, he glanced to the west, where a huntress marched with a val'kyr over her shoulder. As if knowing, she turned just then to catch his gaze, and Britta grinned widely at him, winking a pale blue eye. Drekthac's white-hot flash of rage expressed itself only as a single grunt before he faced forward again.

The day and night following the battle had been admittedly great. He and Britta had drank and sang, while the Hall of Heroes grew rowdy and loud. They had fought in the brewing brawl, they had danced with locked arms and spilling mugs, and they had kissed with Britta thrust on her back over the table, spilling food and plates around them.

With the coming of night, they had drunkenly returned to Britta's longhouse in the mid of the city close to the Hall of Heroes, both bruised and battered from the celebration. The assumption of what came next should not have been a difficult thing, yet as passions soared and clothes fell away like rain – and Drekthac had himself a mouthful of icy frost vrykul tongue – they had been interrupted by Britta lifting him into the air off her and questioning him.

The blighted huntress, he discovered, had taken Maldrid's place in order to dig out the secrets between he and Hilda. Britta the Blood Maid wanted information, to know why the two schemed to break down Ymirjar traditions, and what else had transpired in the mating of the Dragon and the great Hilda. And she kept him blue-balled until he told her.

In hindsight now, Drekthac had no clue what led him to believe that tumbling with Britta would be pleasant. Maybe it was her beauty or just a return to a body of flesh rather than spirit – perhaps even her pleasant heart when she sang, fought, and spoke – but while she continued to prove exceptionally attractive, with a body strong as vrykul yet limber and fit and oh so pleasantly taut, he somehow forgot that Britta was bloody batshit insane, and a gods damn _sadist!_

He had gone down on her, and though she kept herself clean, the pleasantries ended there. Her thighs wanted to see his head, or even body, split like a melon between them, and the challenge of holding back her strength with his own while pleasuring her had bloody Britta laughing. She had got off on it!

And she would not pleasure him in turn, she vowed with her dazzling white teeth showing. Not unless he made her. So still sore from battle, still sore from the celebration, Drekthac had wrestled her down and- and it didn't end there! Puckered welts and torn rings lined his body where Britta's teeth had taken him during it, his back carried the lines of her finger nails. His cheek still stung, and his nose smarted, and his bruises had nearly doubled in it. She offered him her mouth in a lull of the struggle, and he flat out refused, believing she might try to skin his manhood with her teeth while down there!

Wily, swift Britta seemed to take the whole encounter as a true challenge. When she had him pinned, once even dislocating his shoulder by wrenching his arm up too far, she would free one hand to slide over his chest and down and fondle him, mixing pain and pleasure, but always she kept it as a slow tease until he could free himself and get her in turn. Like a man could keep himself aroused in the midst of that!

Drekthac's one moment of triumph, he recalled rather vividly, was first getting one of her strong legs pinned to her chest, and as she fought back, he pressed harder and harder against her, lifting up her massive, heavy body rear-first into the air, to scrunch into itself nearly upside-down, until her knees were pressed against headboard, her head and arms pinned in the tight trap of it. Stepping forward, he slammed his knees against her then exposed back, locking her in place, and with the final wrench of his arms, had her thighs spread wide open. With her long torso, it left her womanhood right there before his face, vulnerable.

The next few minutes kept Britta entirely immobile and at his mercy, and he left his own marks along the inner side of her thighs with his teeth, while his hand worked inside her, and her sculpted, luscious buttocks were free for rough fondling. Britta had _screamed_ during it, squirting in her orgasms and entirely helpless to his hunger, until he freed her twitching, shaking body at his leisure.

That had only been their foreplay.

Waking up this morning, Drekthac felt as if he'd spent the night forced through a meat grinder. Still did. It left him unable to appreciate the curled body of his naked, mellowed lover or the offer for Helgrin to start his day with her mouth. It didn't matter how many songs of praise Britta was ready to sing for him this morning, he did not consider that night worth the effort – he still did not know which of them had a worse limp.

Fucking Britta. Her pulling a thrice-damned _knife_ to make a _blood game_ of the night had been a step too far. How was he supposed to war today?

"You are certain you do not wanting healing, my liege?" Maldrid asked mildly, not for the first time.

"I'm fine," Drekthac grunted sourly.

Maldrid paused for a second, before adding, "It's just that... there are rumors, from Helgrin, about Britta in pleasure..."

"Maldrid," Drekthac cut in. "Drop it."

"Of course, my liege."

The words made him think, however. That poor val'kyr, Britta's handmaiden, would have been made to pleasure Britta before. She would know of it all firsthand, like him. To remain sane as she was despite it spoke volumes about Helgrin.

Hardly another minute of marching had passed before Maldrid added, "If it helps, Helgrin has told me you utterly shattered Britta's world last night. Britta hasn't stopped talking about it."

"Maldrid," Drekthac growled one final time, sharp.

"Forgiveness, my liege," was the mellow reply, yet Maldrid did not sound sorry at all. Intrigued, even. Bloody val'kyr. Bloody Britta. Bloody Hilda too, for that matter!

From the looks of things, they would arrive at King Malton's camp in the next hour. Already, their hunters had spotted movements within the army, gathering paladins before ranks of Jotunheim vrykul. Overthane Ufrangsson clearly had little desire to incite war with his heroes, but the man was reported as no fool, and he knew where the enemy was and where needless interference was. He would do what he must, at the foot of the enemy's land.

"Drekthac the Immortal," a smooth voice hailed, and Drekthac sighed as his mind burst into images and scenes of a painfully unforgettable night. He returned bluntly, "Hilda."

The val'kyr goddess remained dressed in armor and scandalous wear, still without weapons. Her runes would cover that. Her embellished face mask remained on, showing only her mouth and chin. "The Ymirjar speak of sending an envoy to express negotiations with the Fool King of Northrend. Your name has been mentioned."

Drekthac sniffed. "I am the last one King Malthon will wish to see. There will be no opposition if you herald our approach and purpose."

"You forget that King Malthon heads an army of paladins, and we val'kyr are seen as undead monstrosities to them, never to be trusted. I would not be given fair audience, where you would be given that of a giant treading a thinly frozen lake."

"Hmph. You should have interrogated the White Lady while given the chance. King Malthon fought for the Argent Crusade, who tolerates freed undead. He accepted even the death knights, if my eyes were straight in our battle."

Once again, Hilda's words returned unhindered, yet her lips did not move to match what he heard: _You should be quicker in the decision to accept or reject me as your handmaiden, Baelin, or at least invited me over._ Then, her lips moved to say, "Alas, the terms of val'kyr ascension means we cannot know freedom from the Lich King's cold, sleeping grasp." _Even... displaced as he is._

_Yes, you can,_ Drekthac thought to himself, remembering Freydis' earlier request. He would not say it aloud, however, knowing of the secrecy needed to-

Hilda had stopped cold in the air, letting Drekthac and the many Ymirjar near him to pass her by. Sore, frustrated, but now curious, Drekthac turned in his saddle to see Hilda's blank mask boring silent holes at his back. A cold feeling crept through his spine, recalling that Hilda was a rather promiscuous psychic, listening to thoughts she had no right to. Had she heard that one?

"I will see to the announcement of our forces," Hilda told him, loud for the distance.

Watching her rise high into the sky and dart forward did nothing to alleviate Drekthac's panic, and the thoughts churned darkly, considering ideas Drekthac was not prone to. To turn the Lich King's bond over into his hand, making a slave of the val'kyr to his will instead. He would not allow Freydis to become less than she was to him... but Hilda. What if she were chained to his will?

And like the dark bubble it was, it burst, and Drekthac's wits returned to him. What if Hilda was his mind-slave? She would twist and manipulate him until he was but a shell of himself, a vassal to _her_ will in turn. Don't go tangling with snakes just because you found one with a leash around its neck; its poison was no less fatal.

With a growl, Drekthac sourly reminded himself he was in no condition to be debating these thoughts. Fucking Britta.

X Fool King X

"It is not your undeath that worries me, val'kyr, but the feeling that every sugar-coated word you say is only a new strand of the spider's web attempting to encircle me," Malthon said. "I have enough of that already."

Beside him, Lord Goldwind laughed gently beneath his breath, while on the other end, Overthane Ufrangsson intoned, "This small one, Lady Hilda, is wise beyond expectations."

"I insist again that the Ymirjar come only to battle the darkling hordes, but while I cannot fault your preparations, I sense a readied hatred in your heart, King, and I see your men fixing baleful eyes at the approaching clan. You wish to fight."

"Hatred?" Malthon questioned, grunting a laugh. "You are dearly mistaken, val'kyr. Dearly, lethally mistaken. Core men, march!"

A psychic hand reached for his mind, and the Light scalded it in a brilliant flash yet again. The owner, presumably the val'kyr, showed no flinch or reprimand, only patience. A spider, that one was. Perhaps he could send Lysora after her and let them strangle themselves in their mixes of weaves.

Around Malthon marched only his finest. Lord Commander Denell Goldwind, Commander Jayce Greylane, Lord Terichon Galean, Commander Jake, Sir Bardin Ironhawk, the Sir Richard Houndson's Black Guard, Sir Marcanus Fouster's White Guard, and the irate, smoldering Dame Jenn Stoutmantle. With them was Overthane Ufrangsson, his second Vagrim, and a dozen trusted thanes.

They alone sat ahead of the ranks of troops, and now they left the army to meet the massive body of Ymirjar approaching. Certainly, they numbered less than than the equally tall Jotunheim vrykul behind, yet there was something to each Ymirjar warrior – the specialized, detailed armor sets, the inhumanly scaled weapons, the fearsome helmets of darkened steel and bestial designs, the bodies hardened and grizzled to the ways of war. They appeared as 7th Legion men, scaled up.

No one from the Ymirjar stepped forward to speak for them. They took no leaders, followed no command. Only ancient oaths, told Ufrangsson, where if the King of Vrykul became desperate enough to travel north and blow the horn atop Balargarde Fortress, then every clan of vrykul would unite together to battle under one banner, including the Ymirjar. Only then would the Ymirjar serve a will not solely their own.

"My King," Jayce addressed from behind, "keep in mind this could be a trap to isolate you and strike you down in deception."

"I agree with the broody one," Sir Richard announced.

Vagrim sneered. "The Ymirjar know honor first, swine. They do not need to coat daggers in poison to kill one man."

Malthon did not look away from the horde they sought to meet, but he added his input, "The Ymirjar knew honor, before the Lich King. Perhaps they seek to return to it after his downfall, but do not fear treachery here." He glanced sideways to Ufrangsson while mentioning, "It is not in the fates." The vrykul grinned.

His words were succeeded by a long, solid hiss of a heavy sword leaving its steel-lined scabbard. The mild Commander Jake said, "Forgive me, King, but I believe only in the fates I see to myself, through my own steel."

"Each man believes as he must," King Malthon nodded. "Val'kyr, I would see the Dragon first. Let him speak for the Ymirjar."

The armored woman, hovering over them without weapons, hesitated none to say, "It shall be so."

The white-winged undead passed before them, swifter with her wings than their cantering horses. The vrykuls seemed to release a heavy breath at that, as if losing a hidden tension, while Lord Goldwind chastised, "My King, do not let Dame Balinda's capture blind our purpose here."

"Ease yourself, Lord Commander Goldwind. The Light's will shall be done here, and justice will be mete in due time. I have chosen the Dragon because even the Ymirjar seemed to hold him in high respect. Just as the conclusion of our proxy-war must be found at his hands, so must any chance of an alliance."

Ufrangsson hummed deeply atop his massive felsteed. "Always, something special stood out with that one. See there, the green drake with that high head and flaming maw? He was once my prized mount, gifted to the Dragon at his ascendance to Ymirjar. There you will find the human with the blood of vrykul."

They saw the val'kyr reach that figure, speaking to the one atop the green proto-drake. In short order, the beast lurched into the air, approaching with two val'kyr in close pursuit. One was the Hilda who met them. The other, one with black wings, of no particular note. Long striding Ymirjar continued their approach, aimed after the three now, where the Dragon might meet the Fool King.

The procession stopped when the proto-drake touched the ground again, twenty yards before them. Their hardened chargers showed no fear at the sudden presence of fanged and scaled beast. With his heart clenching, Malthon searched the saddle for a second figure, to see Balinda again, but he knew inside that he wouldn't see her. The Light had its own plans for her now.

Only the Dragon rode that drake. Like Malthon, he wore no helmet now, revealing that blunt, strong featured face, with his black beard thick now. Unlike Malthon, he wore no armor at all, only a sleeveless vest and leggings made of what appeared to be red dragon scales. His visible body was thick and strong, laced with scars dark and light, wide and slender. A hell-hardened warrior.

The Dragon. Baelin Drekthac the Immortal. Those were his names.

The human Ymirjar patted the scaled drake's trunk-like neck while nodding to the Overthane. His deep, masculine voice mentioned, "A fine drake, Overthane Ufrangsson. The finest. Coralhide has served me well."

"You well earned the gift, Ymirjar," the Overthane returned, nodding his head to Drekthac.

It was then Malthon noticed a strange lethargy to the Dragon. His eyes were ringed and dark, his skin seeming pallid in the dull Northrend light, with attention coming from a dull, tired face. Gathering himself, Drekthac grabbed a long hilt that stuck from the saddle of his drake, then slid aside the beast, drawing out one of his hulking swords with the golden hilt and runic blades.

Even without the enchantments of armor, the Dragon carried that sword in one hand easily. Instead of flaunting the fact, he let the tip and weight drop to the snow, slumping against the muscled side of his drake, cracking a grin at the many who quickly drew their own blades in response.

Briefly, Drekthac gestured to Commander Jake with his long sword. "It seemed only fair, as he appears eager as the Fool King to spill my blood. Come if you dare, but this is otherwise a precaution. The Ymirjar will speak first with the Fool King of Northrend."

With a gentle word, Malthon dismissed Crown back into the Light, and the horse trickled away in motes of gold and whites, letting his heavy boots touch the snow. His shield remained locked against his back, and the weight of his mace at his hip was balanced by the helmet he carried beneath his arm at the other side. He met the Dragon at equal footing, pacing forward some steps as the Ymirjar body reached them.

The men, both small race and vrykul, muttered at the deadly circle of warriors that moved to surround the meeting, trapping them with the Malthon within the inner ring. Grounded now, Drekthac was joined by the two val'kyr, Hilda and the other, who flanked his either end like protectors.

Malthon stopped at the mid-ground between Drekthac and his escort. He noticed Ufrangsson did not follow. "Well, Dragon of the Ymirjar," King Malthon addressed, "you know our enemy. You know us here, both your fellows of Jotunheim and us, whom have met with you intimately. Your war horns and drums remain silent, so why have you come now?"

Unarmored, hardly armed Drekthac had a smirk pass over his features. "My brethren and I, we have ourselves a vendetta with the darklings."

"Many men carry vendettas these days," Malthon replied, an edge in his voice.

Another fleeting smile. "Aye, some more than others, Fool King. Does it pain you, to stand here before me, knowing I took her? That I've kept her in my home, slave to whichever desire I might enact upon?"

From behind, a high-pitched female voice roared, "You get her back, Malthon! Don't let this dog breath another breath without-!"

Malthon had raised his hand, and someone silenced Dame Jenn. Emotion tried to seize him, but he killed it fast. "Capturing a Crowngarde... I don't pity your struggles, Dragon. Not at all. But neither will I tolerate it further. We'll negotiate with the Ymirjar, but you will give us your captive back. The sour blood between us cannot clear otherwise."

"Can't, I'm afraid," Drekthac snorted, careless with his shrug.

Both Jenn and Malthon's voices overlapped in their complaint, "You-!"

"Can't." The word cut in, deep enough to be heard over and silence both objections. "Not won't. Blame this one here, the Silvertongue, for having your woman sent away."

Malthon regarded the deceptive, armored val'kyr with a renewed critical eye. Focus on the negotiations, he reminded himself. _But don't back down._ "Where is Dame Balinda?"

The regal Hilda had a gentle, nearly superior, smile. "Balinda Crowngarde fights in Jotunheim, within the sacred confines of Valhalas, to prove her worth. Should she succeed, new, unprecedented bonds shall form between the Ymirjar and the small ones of Northrend."

A sense of panic seized King Malthon, and emotion clamored to the surface. Behind, someone groaned, "Oh, Light!" He was inclined to agree, and he opened his mouth to burst out his complaint:

"A crass lot, you Ymirjar are. That explains the reports the Overthane has received from his homeland. You will soon reap the harvest your decisions have planted, and you will find the crop far from hoped. Until that moment, we have a war before us. The heroes of Ymirjar are figures of legend, and the turn of the world has bloomed an age where every warrior will be needed. Will you join us in taking the battle to the Skinless hordes and their master within Storm Peaks?"

Not even in part was that what Malthon had intended to say. The words, the emotions, were plucked from each sound his tongue produced, molded into that reply, and he finished it with a click of his tongue and drooping, baffled eyebrows. Had the Light taken control? He could not detect the usual hand of it, and he knew those words came from within.

The Dragon and the Silvertongue took to the words positively, however, and he realized their willingness to work with him. Yet before either could reply, someone from behind roared, "Die, you vrykul dogs!"

Malthon turned in place, eyebrows now raised high, only to catch sight of the mad rush of an ex-Scarlet paladin with his blade already drawn. "No!" Malthon hollered, dropping his helmet to attempt to catch the aggressor.

"Yah!" another voice yelled, and Malthon saw the dark wink of a thrown dagger whiz past him, with the telling thunk of a clean hit. The deep voice of the Dragon made an, "Oomph!"

"Treachery!" someone shouted in the midst of the confusion, and the hundreds of encircling Ymirjar retrieved their weapons at once, buzzing with excitement.

Treachery. Why had Malthon not seen this coming? The wildly coming paladin was halted in place by a Hammer of Justice, and Malthon caught the stumbling lad under a strong arm, thrusting his elbow against the plate helmet to knock it clean off, then released him.

The man began to fall, with bright blue eyes peering up with clearly dazed, stunned eyes. The blue didn't reflect like normal eyes, instead shining light like those of an animal, all pearled and pale blue. Shined eyes.

The cult had infiltrated his men.

Clarity reached Malthon then, and he demanded the Light fill his being. It came down in a pillar of bright power, slamming against him and flooding his body with its strength and radiance. Looking towards his men, the world seemed to clarify to him, processing it as if everything moved in slow motion.

Vrykul were thrusting blades into the backs of paladins, holding them close to impale them through. His men turned upon vrykul, either Ymirjar and Jotunheim, and the confused faces looked back, unprepared for the danger. Sir Richard had one man by the throat, choking him from behind while trapping the struggling death knight's sword arm. Yet, he noticed the Ymirjar were hardly involved, patiently waiting for anyone to attempt challenging them.

In the same look, he saw all the wrongness to certain figures. The cultist infiltrators. Six of them were mixed with his men, including one who remained subtle and acted surprised as the rest, yet his attention was fixed to Lord Commander Goldwind's back, slowly approaching. The Jotunheim vrykul had two, both of them thanes, and not one of the rest suspected those two were acting under ploy rather than furious response. None of the Ymirjar had been infiltrated.

As he realized these things, other paladins called the Light into them, and the power pulled at the world like his own did. The impressions touched, and though not powerful enough to merge together, men discovered the same revelation Malthon had as their forces touched his, and they jumped upon the cultists quickly.

Warning touched Malthon's mind then, and he turned back quickly to deflect a spear with his bracer. The black-winged val'kyr, her mouth split with a vicious snarl, now with wings wide to control her momentum against him. Without weapon or shield ready, Malthon only stepped aside, letting her carry past, and approached the Dragon, now slumped to the snow with his back against his drake. The winged beast had its maw gnashing, eyes set on everything close.

Hilda stooped before the downed Dragon, kneeling, and he stepped aside her, the Light telling him things a mortal couldn't know. Manipulations caught the life and soul of Drekthac in suspension, before any physical thing could harm him, and then he bent to pry out the dagger embedded in the heart. Hilda tried to stop him, but the Light seared her encroaching hand away, letting him work unabated.

As the dagger pulled free, no blood leaked from the wound and the opening remained frozen in its open state. Malthon Laid his Hands upon the Dragon. And the Dragon was healed.

At once, power and nearly all of his strength seeped out of Malthon. Yet, a second later, it flooded back into him, and he jumped to his feet to stare away the approaching val'kyr again. With Light empowering his voice, he roared, "ENOUGH!"

It whip-lashed through the clearing with magical presence, halting every man and woman in their confusion. The cultists had all been detained, and only the confused and desperate had still fought.

Loud and clear, he demanded, "Bring the cultists before me."

The many angry men did not let their rage subside, yet they watched six paladins pull forward prisoners (including two vrykul), and drop them to their knees before Malthon. Overthane Ufrangsson, wounded in his saddle with a leaking hole beneath his left hand, looked the most furious.

To him, Malthon said, "See to the judgment of your thanes. On this day, we have been infiltrated, and these men here hold their loyalty to a despicable cult." To the six of the smaller races – two dwarf and four human – he growled, "Do you think you can stop what is already in motion? Your master is right to fear us. These bonds will not be shattered so easily! May the Light grant you mercy, for we will not!"

He nodded to the captors, and as one, each executed the men with single sweeps of their swords or daggers. The two vrykul struggled to rise again as the others fell, but the captors wrestled them down.

"What is this?" Ufrangsson hollered, urging his felsteed towards the detained thanes. Vagrim, with his sword bloody, remained close. The second was visibly livid at the betrayal. "Speak now, Fool King, before your head decorates my hip! Your men strike like vipers, and you hold my two oldest brethren at blade point!"

Curiously, the Ymirjar seemed the least concerned at the attack. None appeared disturbed or infuriated, even the Dragon who struggled to his feet with a val'kyr's help.

Malthon raised his hand to point at the corpses his men had executed. "Treachery from within. A cult has risen in support of the Skinless disease. See these men, their eyes shine blue like the cats of night. Cult of the Damned trademark. Brush away make-up from their faces, and I bet you will find the marks of it and the Twilight's Hammer too."

"Release me, you milk-skinned swine!" one thane roared. "My liege, slay these traitors!"

Malevolent, crafty Ufrangsson did not behave in haste, even now. With narrowed eyes, he looked from Malthon to the slain men, and with a barked command to Vagrim, the vrykul commander brought one head to the Overthane to look over. While his thick fingers brushed at the cheeks of the frozen, screaming head, he growled, "And why do you hold Thane Bründsson and Thane Fjonr, men I grew with like blood brothers, captive like honorless, defeated slaves?"

Malthon's regard was cold, arms going behind his back as he stood before both the Overthane and the two living captives. "Because the spirits of these two men are rank with cult sludge. Their hearts and loyalty are elsewhere, and their intents opposite to our success."

"Speak not words and show proof!" Overthane Ufrangsson barked, throwing the severed head aside, one cheek exposed with cultist tattoos. "Vrykul do not fall prey to pathetic mind magicks!"

"Yes, Fool King," another voice demand from behind, sounding dull and without emotion, "Show proof." The Dragon.

A ball of bright Light filled Malthon's hand, shining brilliantly like a gnomish electric bulb. "We are men of the Light, who follow it and its teachings with our hearts, bodies, and souls. The Light knows the future, and it guides us to its purpose, as we let it, to better the world for us, for our fellow man, and for those even not our fellow. We are servants to the world, vrykul. The greater a paladin stands, the deeper his servitude to others. You do not understand this path; in your honor, you think this makes us weaker, inferior, yet it is a place of glory and honor to each of us.

"We communicate with the Light regularly, and it, our god if you must understand it, speaks back differently for each brother and sister. With the first appearance of this foe, these Skinless, the Light, our strength and confidence, has faltered. Unlike the Scourge, unlike the Burning Legion, unlike even the greatest of the Ymirjar – the Light does not know this foe. It is an antithesis not like love and hate, but like emotion and apathy. Like sight and blindness, and this foe has cast a blind spot over an all-seeing vision."

All eyes – paladin, death knight, vrykul – watched him, letting him explain what even those of the Light did not yet fully understand. Hell's Bells, Malthon himself did not yet understand it, yet he spoke: "At the first encounter, even a screech of a blind Skinless could strip from us the Light in its fear, though dark, oily magicks were behind it. The Light has learned, through our arms and steel, that though this foe is hidden from it, they can still be defeated all the same, and its confidence has returned three-fold with a fury unlike anything the Scourge could incite.

"The Light could not foresee the treachery here, but it can respond. I lent my eyes to the Light, and it returned the ability to see the spirits of men, and the mark of cult filth is inescapable. You want proof? Ymirjar spell-casters, greatest of the land, watch the nature of my spell! Behold, Overthane, and let your spirit be purged of all taint!"

With the persistent orb still in hand, Malthon opened his palm towards Ufrangsson and let brilliant rays splash over the vrykul, all without effect. His lip curled at it, dark eyes glistening. Malthon gathered another orb to his hand, turning now to the Ymirjar who carried the tattoos of rune masters on their shoulders, "Ymirjar, speak out! Have I called to me the same spell in my hand?"

It was Hilda, the armored val'kyr, who announced, "It is the same." The vrykul looked her way, nodding to themselves. Malthon made note of the reverence of this one and reevaluated her significance.

Nodding to her now, Malthon looked to the head the Overthane had tossed away, and he sent the bright rays that way. All watched as flesh seared away, revealing the white skull, and bleaching it whiter as all else vanished from the bone. Everyone mumbled at it; Malthon himself did not know the nature of this purging spell, only the fury within him as he cast it.

A third time now, he called the spell into his hand, and his eyes stopped on the blank mask of Hilda. "Val'kyr, speak out. Is this yet again the same spell in my hand? The same which left the Overthane unharmed, in his purity, and the same which burned away the known cultist in all its fury?"

The undead spirit's lips turned up in a fascinated smile, seeming amused with his display. "It is the same."

To Ufrangsson, King Malthon turned, and the Light in his hand glowed even brighter, bathing him in its brilliance. "So Overthane, shall I purge your thanes now? Are you confident that they will remain unharmed, or will they burn to bone in their sickly corruption? Lord Goldwind, Commander Jayce, stand before the fallen thanes! Let each of you experience the same, for further proof! Sir Richard, you as well! Let us test if an honest death knight can escape the flames!"

The wounded Overthane had a fierce grin now, though blood still spilled over his hand. His felsteed was moved to stand beside Malthon before the thanes, and Malthon could hear the deep laugh from the vrykul. "A fox in your own right, Fool King. A fox indeed!"

"My liege!" the captive vrykuls cried. "Do not trust his trickery! He will kill us through deception!"

The Overthane returned, "With another, I would show more prudent concern. Silence your sniveling, cowards! Lady Hilda herself watches this trial, to be certain of the spell work! You could be in no safer hands – should you be innocent. And may your final moments burn for eternity if you have poisoned your hearts in greed and ambition!"

Even wounded, he roared with raw fury. Vrykuls were stern in stature.

"My liege, I'm really not that honest," Sir Richard complained in the hanging moment, standing with Jayce and Denell. "And the Light really hates undeath, as we know, so..."

Malthon sent the spell forward. Golden rays spilled forth, washing over the lot of them. Voices screamed, roaring with agony common to inquisition rooms over battle fields. Only Sir Richard flinched at it, stepping back at the first touch, but it was not his dried lungs that made the roars.

The two thanes burned, skin blistering black for only the first moment before they split and dissolved. Vrykul were tougher than men, and it took longer for the flesh to reach bone. The extent of a vrykul's hardiness proved itself as the two thanes did not die. Ribs and skulls exposed, muscle and skin splitting away, and the Light burned deeper into their bodies. Yet they screamed longer, undying, even as the beating hearts showed themselves through the ribs and struggled to remain functioning. Even at their destruction, it wasn't until the lungs had wasted that they fell silent, thrashing _still_ for several seconds, until finally falling still, moments before the other end of the ribcage revealed itself.

The two skeletal bodies fell forward, shattering into bone fragments against the icy Northrend ground. Silence reigned in the clearing, eerie now without the horrific death roars of the two thanes. First to speak was Sir Richard, unharmed but bent like a frightened doe. His dry voice mentioned, "My King, I am allowed to hate you, right?"

"Pathetic," Ufrangsson spat, turning his horse away. "May Hela shackle them to their cowardice and vies to weak, honorless powers." He spat again.

King Malthon nodded, and he faced Ufrangsson as he moved back towards his other thanes. "Overthane, I can take that wound from you. It is the least to offer, for this."

"No!" Ufrangsson shouted back. "I want this scar. I want to see it for the rest of my life and remember the day vrykuls abandoned their honor to devote themselves to the evil of the old world. I will not forget that even our glorious, honorable people can stoop low as fucking slave-prostitutes."

Malthon understood, and he left the Overthane to his brooding. He faced the coalition of the Dragon and his escorts. Nodding to the human, he admitted, "I am surprised at the reactions of the Ymirjar. Of all who were betrayed here, you seemed the least concerned, when you had the right to be the most."

Drekthac, the hole in his vest obvious where the dagger had taken him, grinned back. "Not one of us expected to settle this without first shedding blood. You have the right to strike us in vengeance, and we allow you that. It is a shame though that it proved to be only a treachery of a lesser sort."

"So what is the agreement of your clan?" Malthon looked around to the other hundreds of faces towering over him in the wide circle. "What is the agreement of the Ymirjar?"

Stilling holding their weapons, many of those grizzled, yet somehow regal, faces began to split with grins. Light, but these were heroes, weren't they? Those figures that Lordaeron might make into statues, each with a history of a thousand battles behind them, refined and sharpened to be even greater in the sacred grounds of Ymirheim? Not a band of brutes or barbarians, but legends of ages.

"The Ymirjar say," Drekthac said for them, "that let not a single one of us rest in the grave until the evil of the old world is thrust back into only history. We will make of its body a trophy, and if the humans of the Fool King or the warriors of Jotunheim are beside us when we rip its heart from the monster's chest, we will feast upon it with new brothers."

Malthon nodded to the Dragon, and then to the Ymirjar. The immensity of what was happening here did not escape him. An army of nearly three hundred full, Light-blessed paladins. An army of the vrykul's greatest warriors. Both absorbed together in a host of thousands of regular vrykul warriors. The Alliance and Horde together had struggled – and failed – to defeat either vrykul army in the heights of their power. Combined now with the very finest of the Alliance, an army already unprecedented in its concentrated power, they were creating an army capable of bringing down even dark gods.

Light, but before all was done, that was exactly what they might be doing.

Did the rest of Azeroth even know of the threat up here in the crown of the world? Did they realize that with the defeat of the Lich King, the horror was not done? Would Malthon fight and win... or die, without another person in the planet knowing what they had done here?

At the conclusion of Drekthac's words, the Overthane barked a laugh and shouted, "Ymirjar strategists! The gods themselves favor this war of ours! We march into the hellish maw of the Old World, and let us do our ancestors proud!"

King Malthon, and many of those gathered here, turned to the east, looking to the jutting fingers of Storm Peaks mountains reaching impossibly high into the sky, as if pillars meant to carry the weight of the clouds. Lightning flashed in the distance without prompting – some within clouds, and many simply encircling those stone fingers.

It was time to march, they all realized. Proto-drake borne supplies would keep their armies replenished, but what a hellish campaign they had before them. To where would they go? The Peaks were nigh impossible to traverse in even small groups, and they had thousands to consider. The hardy vrykul might know ways. King Malthon had to trust that. The ability to complete this successfully was outside of his hands.

Light, watch over them all.

It was time to march.

* * *

AN: And that's the first half of Stage Two. Up next, the Thomas-Sin side of it. In truth, I feel like I need to go back and rewrite the Ymirjar and Sightless scenes to better scale their power in comparison to average vrykuls and soldiers. Like Balinda on the wall last chapter, she killed ten Sightless alone. I meant to describe it as I did, a dance and reflection, and it was meant to demonstrate how unbelievable she is as a fighter, but in hindsight, it almost feels as if I wrote a fight between her and ten regular Skinless.

That was a Sightless mantid attack, to confirm any suspicions. They've already made it up north since the same call that sent the qiraji rushing out of Ahn'Qiraj in _The Storm._ And the perceptive might notice there is one very big, very powerful, very unstoppable creature associated with mantid that hasn't appeared yet – and those big guys are bad even before Skinless or Sightless power. The Sha shades have nothing on the power of an old god in full.


	21. Chapter 19: New Hearthglen

Chapter 19

_New Hearthglen_

* * *

X Ranger-General X

In his life, Thomas had seen all the things he had been promised as a child. Adventurers, heroes, they left into this grand world of theirs, and they would find places of beauty, of exotic fae, of enchanting forests and devilish, burning mountains. They would encounter and triumph over terrible villains, and they would find themselves rescued by the kind hands of ancient deities.

Thomas had traveled arid, endless deserts, and he had trekked mountains so high the very air lost its essence for breath. He'd fallen out of battlefields of scores of enemies, slain men who truly deserved death, and he had rescued damsels and children in droves. He had been invited into a queen's bed chamber, overlooking soaring hills and dense, towering forests in its remote sanctuary. He had knelt before kings and lords of every land, been given their blessing and praise. And their hate, before his dagger snuffed their malevolent essence, depending on where he was.

Through harems of mind-numbing incenses, groped and betrayed by the dozen soft hands of women in scandalous, exotic garb. He had fought the mind-enslaving of succubi, of shivarran nobility, and he had danced in halls of bone, fire, and shadow. He had lived his life as a hero, lived it indeed!

But his story, it had not ended yet. Through woodlands and familiar forests, he met with, befriended, and lived as an elf. His current chapter, with the Exilee, it was different from before, yet he could not say anything had changed. His will remained its own, his purpose unchanging, and only the faces around him changed, except his constant companion Buck. Leading an army of elves or delving the mana-shattered lands where earth met Twisting Nether – what fanciful element truly changed?

Yet, through it all, the past never blotted out Thomas' view of the present. He had seen such beauty, both in land, art, and even flesh, yet it never numbed his eye to what he might behold after. Such was the case now, stepping sideways through the warm, musky breeze of Elwynn's forest, feeling the soft, familiar grass press beneath his light boots.

Around him stirred trees, the leaves trembling with a sound unlike anywhere else in this world or another. Thomas knew this land well, even with his long absences from it, just as he knew when to stride back and lift his foot over an unturned root without looking to avoid a tree. His attention was unwavering, his eyes fixed before him, as he side-stepped around the clearing.

A woman danced at the center. It could be called nothing else, the contortions and changes of her state of body. As a blood elf, the woman was of exceptional beauty – her body slender, fit, and feminine, with a face of refined, aristocratic features with high cheek bones, a rosebud mouth, the blond racial eyebrows that roofed eyes of radiant green.

On this day, Sarrine did not dress herself as a ranger, though that was their purpose here. Her outfit remained far less constricting than leathers, offering no protection, yet it revealed much of her form and shape to ready eyes. She had chosen it for him, to allow him view of her, and she danced her exotic show in full display.

The snug, cloth articles remained thin, sometimes sheer, upon Sarrine's body, offering tantalizing hints of what lay beneath. With each turn of her body, the looser hanging veils whispered in the wind, touching Thomas' ears in the song of her motions, pleasing each of his senses as they could touch. Her scent, her sight, her sound, her touch, Thomas knew them all and felt urges to move, to desist his subtle change in position around her.

Despite all distractions, his attention was set on more than body. The motions were important, every detail, from the rate of breath intake to strain on limb. This dancing elf displayed an awareness and control of her body, mastery of its motions, and slowly branched into examples of control of her space. The body became a tool of motion, rather than the supplier, and still her dance complicated further. How far could she press herself? To what extent could her personal control reach?

Flexible, nubile flower, this woman was, and soon the deep bends at the waist were assisted by palms against the grassy floor, and Sarrine gently flowed into her first handstand, her body arched in perfect balance for a fleeting motion as forces shifted from end to end, and she touched down without an interruption to her flow.

She was an image in the moonlight, pale and lovely, dressed so boldly, so slyly. Every detail of her, from personal feature to restless motion, seared into Thomas' mind.

Crow's stand and lethargic, controlled somersault. Bridging backwards and lifting her feet up still, then rising on one palm. It was excellence. Grace was the field of elves, for all men to envy. What had taken Thomas years had been mastered in hardly a week.

An idle flick of his wrist sent a dagger whistling towards the dancing elf. Like adding drums to a melody of wind, it gave her a new tempo, something quick yet fluid, and Sarrine jumped from a hanging form, balanced on one foot, to a kick up to a one-handed stand, with her legs crossing to avoid the path of the blade. It struck the grass behind her, and Thomas threw again.

With a push, Sarrine spun in the air, yet before her motions could finish, a third dagger followed the second into the air. A land like a fall, collapsing on her leg to low – and under the second dagger – only to somersault only part way to escape the third. Grace, uninterrupted. Thomas felt a pleased, intrigued grin touched his face.

It was acrobatics, as Thomas had been taught by Merridan. Then, he had been given more than a few thumps and pricks from the practice daggers, but Thomas had learned in the end. Total mastery of the self, of spacial awareness, of both the limits of the body and the limitless ways it can express itself. And the rangers had taken to it like fish to water.

It had began with Genveera the Swan approaching him on their first day of rest. She asked to move as he did, recalling his tussle with the warlord. Hardly into the first lesson of acrobatics, the entire force of Ashblades committed themselves to the same training, even Jerath. Merridan had offered input and advice, but without eyes he could not study the form of his students with the same efficiency.

Six nights after, the Ashblades could demonstrate the motions with great success. This was their last night in the forest, as the army prepared to move the following morning through the portals to the Great Dragonblight. Thousands of miles, crossed in a single instant. Now, after acquiring mastery, Sarrine had asked for Thomas to personally check her technique.

She met him wearing a simple robe, quietly removed to reveal her current wear. Then the dance had begun, and Thomas entertained his elven lover in the game of steel and form. Now, the tempo quickened again, where Thomas jumped back to avoid a returning dagger. Sarrine had scooped and thrown it still without losing poise or flow.

Their exchanges passed without progress, though wounding was antithesis to their goals here. Thomas himself left his dark hunt to join her in the clearing in visible sight, and he also committed himself to the same fluid motions and personal control to avoid being stuck by blade point, rather than speed and anticipation.

Closer their motions pressed, until the toss of a dagger grew less favored than physical confrontation. Yet in the first strike, Sarrine found herself outclassed as many did when fighting the Shadow. Thomas disappeared in a black cloud, reappearing at a distance with a dagger in the midst of a throw, and then he vanished from there to behind, tripping her with a push continuing her own motions, sending her flat on her back.

Sarrine's dance stuttered and crumbled, and she struck quickly with her dark ashblade, hoping to nick his side. Thomas remained in the path until he vanished in another cloud of black, Shadow-Stepping to just behind her again, and the scandalously dressed elf found herself pinned and helpless in his arms.

Slender Sarrine writhed playfully for a time, before huffing a loud sigh. Her green eyes sparkled in the moonlight as they beheld his grinning face, and she mentioned in Thalassian, _"It is no fair, how you can move through shadows. No one can catch you."_

His smooth-shaven cheek nuzzled her flawlessly soft one, before whispering, _"If my fights were fair, I doubt I'd still have breath in my lungs."_

He could hear the sound of Sarrine's tongue briefly wetting her lips and the quick swallow as his breath touched her long ear, poking out of her shoulder-length blond hair. She questioned weakly, _"Can your trick be... _ah,_ taught?"_

"Mmhm," he hummed, now only a hairs breath from the sensitive skin of her ear. Quieter still, he admitted, _"But not by me."_

"_Then-_ ah!" Sarrine gasped as his teeth grazed the spongy flesh, breathing around the gentle grip he had. His lips dragged along it. Sarrine's skin, already so exposed, erupted into gooseflesh beneath his hands, while she uttered, "Oh, oh, _by the sun,_ Thomas."

"Hmm?" he questioned without words. With a lasting flick of tongue, he separated to ask, _"More questions?"_ His mouth resumed its teasing place.

"_Don't start what you won't finish."_ The dangerous growl came as a surprise, nearly comical from the dainty elf. But he could feel the hungering tension seeping into her limbs, building a very physical reaction waiting for him to pass a certain threshold.

His hands, formerly locking hers behind her by the wrist, dragged down over her skin to her lower back, then lower. Velvety cloth interrupted the shivering flesh with such rarity. _"Who is the instigator?"_ he questioned after a nibble, breathing warm breaths over her highly sensitive ear. _"Who dressed for only one occasion?"_

"_Haven't a clue,_ nnmph," she started, groaning as his hands cupped and kneaded her buttocks. Breathlessly, she finished: _"what you're speaking of."_ The tone was content and satisfied.

Callused hands reached up again, over the dips of her arching back, through the small between shoulder blades, then under her arms to her front, dragging only the sides of her chest and down. As his hands wandered, he reminded, _"It's our last night in safety, the last in the woods and privacy. And playing at war has made brief escapes oh so few in number for us, hasn't it?"_

"_Mmm, undoubtedly,"_ she groaned. Her blond-crowned head lifted from the nape of his neck to press a firm kiss against his lips, only to pause and scrunch up as his hands did something she found... interesting. Fingernails dug into his shoulders as she hissed, "Thomas..."

His fingers picked at the fringe of the cloth that covered her chest, worming under to reach along soft, heated skin for a teasing moment. He curled them out again. Sarrine's narrowly clad hips ground over him, pressing their pelvises together, while her light breaths puffed against his neck again, where her head had retreated. Quietly, she demanded, _"Unveil me."_

His hands returned to the thin cloth for her breasts, inching under again and finding the room to slide the straps from her shoulders, but he paused to question, _"You are sure?"_

"_Burn you, Thomas!"_ Sarrine cried out, though still soft for their proximity. _"You wind me up and then shed doubts. If you want me, if you want this, then take me! Light, I'm _yours_ Thomas, for as far as you want. But if you are still testing waters, slow as eastern winds, and this is your idea of seeing if you want me, without release, then give me an hour alone in a brook to deal with this myself!"_

By the end of her rant, Thomas was laughing, and he comforted her with a kiss. _"I want to be sure this is more than physical, but you make a slow pace nearly impossible."_

With a narrowed gaze, Sarrine said, _"Over two weeks and you are yet to do more than kiss me; I say you've had you're success. I've had to resort even to wearing _this_ to try to urge you further."_

"_It's working,"_ he mentioned, kissing her pouting lips and having his hand slide up from her exposed stomach, finding first the hardness of her ribcage and then the softness of her thinly clothed breasts. Sarrine's radiant eyes shut as she inhaled, then sighed.

Her eyes cracked open again as she mumbled, _"You are just unapproachable sometimes. The great Shadow, the Deliverer, our salvation and hero, the Ranger-General. I feel like just another in a line of suitors for the king's affections."_

Thomas stopped his ministrations, leaving his index and middle fingers pressing chastely at the valley of her cleavage. _"That's the illusion I've been hoping to break down,"_ he admitted. _"I'm just another adventurer, one who is very good at what he does. You could just as easily find me in a daring party of five delving into the Shadow Labyrinth, or piping from a tree branch in deep woods."_

The green eyes flashed. _"You pipe?"_

Thomas winked. _"When I can. Don't tell anyone else."_

"_I used to play the harp in Silvermoon. On my off-duty days, I was often invited to play at the Bubbling Brook for tips... Back when the inn still stood, I mean."_

"_I believe I and everyone else knew that, from how you go about on your bowstring in idle moments."_ Sarrine blushed, pale cheeks darkening in the moonlight, and Thomas laughed softly. _"Truly, however, I want to remind you that it is the Exilee who built up that persona of me. I was just an adventurer who saw sickly elves preyed upon by Nether fiends, and I offered to guide you as I might any endangered traveler. The massive scale of who agreed to it frightened me, and I wondered how soon I'd find a Kael'thas-branded dagger in my back."_

"_The rise of a King. We all are witness,"_ Sarrine mumbled, and soft fingers touched his cheek wistfully.

Thomas' jaw flexed at the notion. _"I will die with a reaching legacy, Sarrine, but that will not be my final chapter. I refuse to let it. If that is what you foresee for me – for us – then take your leave now. I have ancient lairs to delve, hellish fiends to lay low, and hapless to rescue. I have lands to explore and wars to tip the scales of. I would have you there with me for that, but my ambitions, my skills, do not extend to lordship in any part."_

The young elf smiled at him, though her inner turmoil was obvious. Still cupping his cheek, she jested, _"Haven't you heard? I'm your Ashblade now, to stand behind you and defend you for an age to come. I will be with you wherever you go."_

"_And would you stand beside me, Sarrine? Could you do that too?"_

That pretty face turned shy, but he caught the flash of a thrilled grin, biting her lower lip briefly. _"I could try. Will you catch me when I stumble?"_

"_Only if you do the same for me."_

"_That is the work for Commander Raeloth and Genveera, and your Merridan too."_

"_For the Exilee. But I am also a man, and times will come when I act stupid and boorish, or for all my sight, I'm blind to something just before me. So Sarrine, will you tug the great Shadow by the ear and reprimand him when it becomes necessary?"_

The blood elf laughed. Hand behind his head now, she tugged him down for a kiss. Whispered breath mingling with his, she said, _"What a day that would be. Make those few to spare me the pleasure."_ Rubbing noses with him, she giggled and added, _"Not that any better could be expected from a man."_

Thomas caught her lips with another kiss. The taunt meant less than the implications, that she could better see him as a man rather than hero. A flick of tongue added heat to the kiss, and they fell back into their game.

XxX

Not a blade of grass rustled, nor shadow stretched, nor night crawler disturbed, yet a mellow, amused voice greeted in Thalassian, _"Are you sure about this, Jack?"_

Thomas did not stop when detected, lurking forward in the perfect shroud of silence, yet his body remained visible for any to trace against the dark of the woods. Merridan remained kneeling in the heart of the open glade, sheathed in natural shadows and radiant with the hanging moon.

Standing behind his mentor now, Thomas admitted, _"I am not without the ability to improve. However, not many can offer me the chance. My rangers, even Jerath, do not know how to deal with one who lacks innate magic."_

Buck inhaled deeply through his nose, then huffed a short laugh. "I was expecting another scent after your... personal oversight of that darling lady."

"I care for her. I'm keeping it slow, without the physical, until I'm certain she sees Thomas, rather than "The Deliverer,"" Thomas replied, following him into the Common tongue.

Still kneeling, blindfolded head erect and serene, Buck replied, "A valuable woman that would be. It would do you much good."

"Yeah, and where's your lady?" Thomas sat himself beside the elf, far less regal as he sprawled himself out, feet forward and arms back to lean. "Nearly twenty years now and hardly an interaction."

"My life has been far longer than yours." The reply was simple and short, and it was clear Buck saw it as an answer. Thomas huffed again, without arguing, and they sat in silence together. It broke when Merridan mentioned neutrally, "I will blind you, Thomas. You are good, one of the best and all without mana, but you are no Jack of that trade."

"It worries you, then?"

"Much worries me, old friend. The Sightless eyes of our foe, however, forebode dark tidings of what might come. You have come to appreciate all fives beautiful senses, unlike most of your kind, but you must be prepared to live without even the most glorious, wonderful one of all."

How beautiful the white moon was, speckled and bright above them. The night elves revered it as a goddess, and he could understand why. He thought of Sarrine and her beauty, that of Nagrand and the floating landmasses spilling endless streams of water. All the beautiful things he'd seen in his years of adventuring.

Gone.

Most men did know know beauty beyond that. The clever, the scholarly, knew beauty in ideas, in knowledge and exploration. Others knew art in music, in language. For Thomas, he knew he would not be without, should he lose his sight. He knew beauty in sound, in the throb and thrive of the world around him. He knew beauty in smell, from the fragrance of the elixir Sarrine used to treat her hair to the scent that was simply _her._

He knew beauty in taste, in flavors. From sweet fruit to salty sweat, he could appreciate the world through the least regarded. And what was a world without touch? From flaky bark under fingertips, to the measured force traveling through his legs and tendons when landing from a high fall, and the silken touch of a woman, and pleasure...

The world would not be lost to Thomas. He could navigate a sightless world, nearly without flaw. Vision was a precious tool, and the gift of it was immense, but Thomas knew, _knew_ it would not be a handicap.

"Do it."

And the world went black.

Thomas immediately reached through the world through sound, and he could feel by current of wind that Merridan had vanished from his side. No panic rose as his eyes blinked open and closed without avail. He left them shut finally and focused, forcing the shadows to bend around him despite the similar flaw in his opponent.

A thump, a whistle.

Thomas jolted aside, finding a dagger to throw, then hurled it towards the origin of the sound. Of course, no one would be there now, but it added noise pollution, masking his presence further as he ran a degree aside from the origin, and with straining ears, he thought he heart the thumping of an accelerated heart rate. A hunter was in the midst, body flushed with blood and tense for violence.

A boot scraped deliberately over the ground, drawing attention to its low point only feet from Thomas' position, and then his main dagger clanged as it hit that of his foe's. By sound, wind, thought and imagination, Thomas engaged his blind foe. He relied on pattern and knowledge of the bodies motions, focusing on the full image of how his opponent still stood.

For a moment, a juke threw off his perception, and Thomas kicked back several steps. His bow slid from over his shoulder to his hand, and he fired off an arrow without hesitation. A loud, excite voice exclaimed, "Aha!"

There was no hit, but the Ranger Lord had not expected a clean shot coming. Merridan's voice, echoing from two locations, admitted, "So you are not such a blind sheep after all! You have trained for this?"

Thomas hesitated, straining to recall how to throw his voice. Sliding around a tree he found – by angle and reach of its roots – he voiced, "Ware the wolves, little shepherd. For even the guardian may be hunted."

Thomas moved, and so did Merridan. Excitement flooded his body, with taunts and memories playing out in rapid streams. He waited for Buck to show his hand, only to dive aside gracelessly to just barely dodge a returning arrow. With one touch of his palm to the ground, he pushed himself to turn in the air and threw knife while landing on his boots in a low crouch. There was a ting of metal deflecting metal and a rich laugh.

"_You forget the duty of the guardian is to _be_ hunted, little cub, and he is so carefully ready for it!"_

Thomas met Merridan again, and they danced.

XxX

Her headache was a searing, throbbing inconvenience upon waking. Tired eyes of dulled viridian split to slits, staring at the soft pink cloth of her tent's roof. No longer would her eyes glow under persistent illumination, this long since her last feed upon bloodgems. Light, but it felt like her body was dying.

With an aching hand, Genveera found her hair and pulled strands before her, checking for color. The bright, golden locks appeared faded and lifeless to her vision, but it was there. She sighed, letting the hair fall to her chest, and then forced herself to sit up. Hardly halfway into the motion, a rush of blood to her head turned the throbbing to drilling, and she hissed, freezing in place.

Light, she needed to feed. She could not operate at her best like this. The Shadow... he relied on her, so she needed to be her best.

Pitching forward, the pain became a sickness, and Genveera turned to puke, spitting up only a small mess. Her innards churned unpleasantly. Even her skin felt like bugs were crawling just beneath, scratching with their small legs and pushing with their bulbous bodies.

_Wine,_ she thought to herself, with all else blank. Finding the ornate, thin-necked bottle, she took it up and drank from the stem. It might have been a fine batch, but her sour tongue and burning mind were numb to all but the cool liquid sliding down her throat, beginning to settle in her turbulent stomach.

When she finished drinking, Genveera let the empty bottle fall to the ground, and she sat back on her bed, palming her forehead in attempt to rub out the pain. The rangers, and certainly the Shadow, would smell the alcohol from her for the next few hours. She cursed to herself for thoughtlessness, but it could not be helped.

_Who still carries bloodgems?_ she wondered. Zerin would. Shady, ambitious, greedy scum unworthy of being called sin'dorei, but he'd be a Light-send if he had some gems in reserve. If she could buy him out, through any means, she'd remain alert and...

Geveera noticed her hand, dancing with a new spell of magic, and her lips were moving to a familiar chant. Fear seized her heart, and she cut the spells with a quick snip. Not _now._

Tugging her fingers towards her ranger's uniform, she commanded the clothes onto her body, dressing her, and she stood to let her boots slip on. The yearning and tearing within her body had not subsided or even diminished, but Genveera could operate despite it, for now. Finding her bow, she took it, her quiver, and her sword and left her tent.

The sun had only just broken the horizon, she noticed. The sky was a grey-blue, but the clouds above were rich with golden edges around the dark cotton. Already, their camp was in motion, with sin'dorei hustling about their tents, carts, wagons, and so forth, preparing for the great march. Today, they would travel by portal to the Great Dragonblight, in Northrend.

Northrend. Not even old elves like her had been that far north. There was nothing for the living up there, nothing but proud dragons, troll remnants, and the ruins of a thousand dead civilizations – and that was _before_ the Lich King parked his ass up there.

The Exilee saluted her in passing. Genveera debated throwing a glamor over herself, knowing what she was doing now, but she did not trust herself with magic at the moment. A glamor spell gone awry could be devastating for herself, at that moment. The Shadow... The Shadow would-

Zerin was where she expected him, carefully attending several pots and cauldrons of smoking liquids. He isolated himself from the camp by remaining at its edge, and supply crates surrounded him to block view from those who weren't specifically looking for him, which she was.

Crossing a threshold, between his wagon and the supply boxes, Genveera alerted him, and Zerin looked up sharply, his green eyes wide. A seedy elf, with black hair and a scratchy goatee. His long eyebrows drooped at the sight of her, however, and he demanded, _"What is it, Duskfury? You agreed to leave me to my business."_

"_Indeed,"_ she said, and her hand threw up a veil behind her, blocking them even from passerby's. Zerin remained suspicious, for good reason. Throwing a sound-blocking weave around them as well, she said, _"Today, I am in need of your business."_

"_Yeah?"_ Zerin remarked cruelly, beginning to step between her and his potions. _"What is it this time? Perhaps another elixir of infertility, to prevent you from being knocked up by your precious "Shadow?""_

Genveera debated reminding him of her authority and power over him now, but she refrained, keeping this business and quick. She would need to return to Thomas before long. _"Bloodgems. I know you have a stock, you decrepit slimeball."_

Zerin laughed. _"Ah yes, the fucking addict comes to the slums for her precious fix. Well too late, "Swan," I sold the last of them a week ago for ten gold pieces and the best head of my life. You have nothing that can compare."_

Genveera dropped her bow from her shoulder and knocked an arrow at full draw in a fraction of a second. With the silver-tipped head aimed directly at his eye, she said with equal indifference, _"I know that was not all of them, Zerin. You will show me your stock, or else you die and I find it myself."_

His eyes bugged, hands shooting up in attempt to pacify. _"Blighted fucking darkness, Genveera, calm the fuck the down!"_ Genveera stepped closer, the arrowhead looming nearer. Zerin backed up, yelping, _"Alright, alright! I have some! Just stop aiming that at me, fuck!"_

She eased back on the arrow, and then holding it under a hooked finger of her left hand, she found a pouch at her waist and tossed it to Zerin. _"I'll take all that gives me."_

The rat scurried carefully for the pouch, and he opened it to peer inside. Immediately, he made a choking sound, pouring out gold pieces onto a palm. He begin muttering spells beneath his breath, so she told him, _"It's all real. Soldier's pay was administered last week, and the Deliverer's second has her own payroll."_

Seedy Zerin dropped the pieces back into the pouch, and he tugged the string tight, tying it before slipping it into a pocket of his robes. Stepping back, he turned to find one of his chests, and he dug about it, eventually coming up again with a smaller chest in his hands.

Holding it onto his palm, with the other hand placed over the lid, Zerin turned a dark, sly look her way. _"There is more to the payment. I want _her,_ Duskfury. I want her in full."_

A bubble of laughter took the Swan, and she couldn't even find the drive to threaten him with her bow again. _"You think I, or anyone, has _control_ of her, you sex-addled lynx-shit? She would sooner sever your cock, and your head, than lower herself to you."_

"_But-"_

"_But nothing!"_ Genveera hissed coldly, and she pulled back on the arrow again. _"You give me the gems I paid for, and you live. That is our deal."_

Vicious triumph came to Zerin's eyes as he pulled open the lid of the chest. _"Behold, whore, the rewards of your fucking labor. Let this be our last transaction, you vile, wretched witch. Come for me again, and I tell your Shadow of our deals!"_

One lone bloodgem remained placed carefully atop the purple felt inside the chest. It was a scrawny, miniscule thing, barely enough for one feed. Genveera's chest clenched tightly in panic.

"_You think you are the only addict to come swinging knife or spell and demand my stock? This camp has fucked and doped itself to shit over these since our rescue, and now you all kill over scraps. Enjoy your purchase, now goodbye!"_ He tossed the gem her way, then snapped the lid shut.

Genveera quickly eased her arrow off and caught the gem like it was precious gold – yet it was more than its weight in gold, she knew. Light, for so much coin, she had hoped... but no, he was genuine. A slimy bastard, but his words were true. This might very well be the last bloodgem within the camp, and the price for it was fair. Fucking...!

Genveera took it and left, throwing down her veil and spells. Zerin spat at her back.

XxX

Thomas nodded to Ysanna and Lorin. The two portal masters began their work, taking their time to chant together and gather their magic, touching ley lines and gods knew what else. It was not quick work, the summoning of portals, yet when they finished, two wide windows shimmered into existence, betraying white land and blue sky beyond through its murky depths.

First through were Ashblades, Jaden and Dor'rath, and only upon their return did the rest of them travel through, with Thomas, Raeloth, and Genveera at the lead. Merridan and Lord Dasen followed, then did the rest of the body of the Exilee.

On the opposite side of the portal was a view much as they expected. Thomas squinted his eyes against the glare of both the sun and the sun against the snow, but once he adjusted to the brightness, he turned about to study the new land they had traveled to. A jump from Elwynn Forest to Northrend, in but a step.

Already, his perception of sound told him of the massive wall to his left, but it was only when he turned look that he realized exactly what it was. His mouth went dry at the sight. The others noticed it as well, some gasping, but all were soon to stare.

With golden ramparts and alabaster stone, it must have been a megalith of absolute imposing size. The stretch of the ruins certainly suggested that. From report, Thomas had heard it addressed as... Wyrmrest Temple, home of the dragons and throne of the Dragonqueen. From fifty miles in any direction, the tower could be seen, it was said. Now, at best it was maybe ten.

The entire Wyrmrest Temple, fortress of the titans, had been demolished – tipped over and crashed for what had to be half a mile of stone rubble. The portals deposited them at the foot of the destruction, what must have been the base of the keep, while the entire way north it was just piles of stone.

Turning from the dreadful sight, Thomas saw Merridan adjusting his blindfold. His mentor had a stern, sober look about him, clearly detecting the mood. Reaching behind him, Merridan slid out one of his elven blades from the crossed sheaths tucked behind his belt. Thomas felt the same concern, but he was no longer the one to act anymore.

"_Send out scouts,"_ he told, in Thalassian, the men around him, while facing Raeloth directly. _"Jerath and Flaerie, I want you to watch from any high ground, see if anything is moving, be it threat or a lone traveler. Commander, I want the scouts going further, to record the area for several miles out at least. Send any who can manage stealth for a deep reconnaissance, to meet up with us in two days, where we plan to camp."_

The Exilee were turning to him, eyes still wide at the shattered symbol of the dragons' power. Thomas kept his spine straight and chin high, with arms going behind his back. Total poise. _"Let's move, men. We have entered a new land, and a war zone at that. We need information, we need details of terrain. Everyone will be working out here."_

Commander Raeloth finally nodded, and he sucked in a deep breath. To the trailing officers, he hollered, _"You heard the Ranger-General! Move your asses! I want a score of scouts sweeping deep, and I need are best-running rogues out on recon. You, Captain, send the Azure and Moonside cells to our command tent. I want Captain Maloree and Donvorei there waiting!"_

"_Sir!"_ the man saluted, then hesitated. _"Where will the command tent be located?"_

Raeloth's glare was withering. _"I am the bloody command tent. Now _move!"

Thomas kept the smile off his face. The former captain, Raeloth, had done extraordinary things with his men before encountering Thomas. It was clear how he held his men disciplined and alive through the tribulations of Netherstorm. Elves usually operated smooth and calm. Raeloth, in combat, had a preference to spittle-spraying tongue lashing, similar to most human commanders. Thomas appreciated the familiarity.

Well, the Exilee wanted their war. Hearing the tall, green banners flapping in the icy gusts, Thomas noted that they were getting it.

"_Shadow!"_ a man's voice called from atop the ruins of the temple.

They looked to see Jerath balanced upon the crumbled stones, with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. As the only fully bearded elf, he still attracted strange looks from some of the Exilee, yet all knew of his place as an Ashblade and one of Thomas' most respected rangers. The blond haired man pointed to the southeast. _"There is a city on a hill, around thirty miles that way. It's occupied."_

Thomas followed Jerath onto the ruins, his feet swift and steady over the wobbling and rolling stones, until he found a balance beside the elf. Shielding his eyes too, he peered far off, spotting the specks of buildings against the glare of the sun. He asked, _"Friendly or foe?"_

Jerath grunted. _"White banner with gold-grey sun or star on it. It looks human though."_ Thomas' glance at him was incredulous, knowing how distant the city was and to see its _banners_, yet he started at the change to Jerath's eyes. They were gold, with large black pupils, like that belonging to an eagle. He'd seen that spell before, used by Merridan.

Muttering to himself, Jerath raised his hand for a spark of blue magic, and then he hummed deeply. _"Paladins, moving in scores. I'd recognize that armor and those capes anywhere. They are friendly, Shadow, to you if not us."_

Eagle Eye, a ranger trick for seeing clearly at impossible distances. Thomas could admit to a slight jealousy, but the emotion was fleeting as he assured himself in his own eyes, trained for clarity and distance unmatched by nearly any other human. The thought reminded him of the previous night, when Merridan had blinded him, and he felt the same unease about losing his sight.

"_Commander,"_ Thomas addressed loudly, _"we march for the city. There we can find more information on the position and force of our enemy, and if we are lucky, we can find allies for this assault. Tell the scouts to meet us there."_ Raeloth saluted, passing on orders. _"Flaerie, what do you see?"_

The brown haired woman was several paces further north along the ruins of the temple, and she was staring off to that direction, quiet. At the question, she announced in her quiet voice, _"I see a wasteland, sir. Nothing alive, nothing moving. Just icy death and shadows."_

Appropriate to Northrend, by report. They returned to the snow, and Thomas noted they were still bringing in their long column of peoples. He nodded to Raeloth, and the commander ordered their march. The scouts saluted and began to spread north.

XxX

"Northrend... This is where he warred, so soon after his return. Now I am here, Merridan."

"King Varian did much good in his time, my lord. In this land especially, he trusted, for the good of all, when he had no reason to, and he was spurn for it repeatedly. More than a war hero, the King was... a King. There are few greater tragedies than the fall of the Golden Lion."

"Yes, I read all the reports. The Wrathgate fiasco, and Garrosh Hellscream, yet even after he allowed Saurfang the body of his son. Such a large shadow to fill, Merridan. So achingly large... But we must look forward, to the present. Can you feel the land? The way it groans and cries in agonies and unspeakable evils... The Scourge was only a wound, and now a vile disease festers it and rots what remains."

"I feel it, my lord, and Thomas can only kill the poison. It will take another hand, one of right and Light and law, to heal it."

"I understand my duties, Merridan. The time will come when it comes."

"...Last night, I spoke with Thomas again. He is the very same, nearly unchanged for all that has happened. Once again, I implore you to tell him, to let him move with an informed mind. He can be trusted to the same magnitude as myself."

"..."

"I plead, my lord."

"...I swore, Merridan. I swore on his very bed of death, under his last breath and with my promise his last hearing. You would have me break that vow?"

No hesitation. "I would, my lord. For him, I would. _He_ would understand."

"He may... He may have understood, but I cannot dishonor his death so, Merridan. Please, I am no less pained by this, but you must understand the significance of why."

"Soon, he will wonder why I have devoted my whole self to the preservation of one elder noble. Soon, he will come to me with questions, and I will not lie to him."

"Forgive me for this, Merridan... But until you show him your eyes and what you have become, I will no longer consider this topic. Now leave me to my thoughts."

"...Yes, Lord Dasen."

XxX

Deynora's eyes swept the stone ramparts of the walled city as they entered the gateway, peering into the pale face of each man and woman stationed there. Those were hard faces, of men in war, and of women who had lost. The reminder of the times was not needed, but it kept her in perspective. The greatest shame was when the townsfolk knew the war, not just the armies. It reminded her of Quel'thelas, after the invasion of the Scourge.

Like the rest of the Ashblades, she kept close to the Ranger-General. Once through the gate, she noticed Thomas approaching a mounted lord, but her attention turned to the humans around them, combing for threats. Her bow remained over her shoulder, arm through the space between string and wood – though the rangers were no longer uniform in appearance, they all carried their bows in this manner, even Thomas.

It was easy to drop the bow into her hand and fire an arrow – hardly a second of time, though the humans would not know that. To her right, during her inspection, she saw the hands of Dor'rath twitch towards his bow, and then his dagger, until he forced himself to settle by hooking his thumbs under his belt.

That man, always so seedy, and a loud mouth too. Like her, he knew a specialty outside of the core, outside of ranging, yet the difference left them contrasting stark as sun and moon. He was a rogue, versed in thieving, lies, deception, and mixing with the vilest of slums. She was a magister, one of the highest ladies from her academ, and she followed formalities, deliberance with every action, and the mannerisms of the higher class. Hers was a pristine and clean world, with ranging her escape from it. His was a dark and broody one, where the woods was his refuge from pursuit and cloaked daggers.

Their dress reflected their differences too, though her eyes continued to the wall again and then back towards the keep of this human town. His leathers were dark greens and shadows, and the full cloak Dor'rath surrounded himself in was dark on one side and light for the out, to be switched for the situation and camouflage.

For Deynora, her style had fuzed the loose robes of the magister with the tight mold of her protective ranger leathers. Robes could snag in the woods, so she kept the leather pants of darkened crimson and earthy browns, and over them, her stiff coat stretched and flared out only so far as her thighs, with her belt over them. In a crouch, the furthest the bottom stretched from her body was only an inch. She wore no cloak or hood, for the confidence of reinforcing spell work allowed her to skip the arsenal of daggers Dor'rath had hidden. A crimson mask bunched loosely on her chest, raised to her face only when she performed assassination work.

Her thoughts returned to Thomas only when he began speaking, to track the tensions and moods of those that surrounded them.

"Thank you for the haven, lord. The Exilee promises you watchmen and defenses for the duration of our stay. I am Thomas, Ranger-General of this force, with Commander Raeloth at my side."

Now the lord: "Greetings, Commander, Ranger-General. I'll admit to not expecting an army of blood elves to be roving about the lands still, but you're a welcome sight in these days. My name is Herrad Goutsting, Lord of only this city here, New Hearthglen, and steward for Lord Malthon Eyenhart. Forgive my ignorance, but I have never heard of the Exilee before. To whom is your allegiance?"

"Independent of Horde and Alliance," Thomas admitted. "But the world is at war, and all must help where we can. This is an Argent Dawn settlement?"

A flick of her eyes showed Deynora that the lord was rubbing the stubble of his chin pensively, and he hummed from atop his charger. With eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion, he questioned, "Under what rock have you been hiding, friend?"

Fortunately, the Shadow was quick to notice changes like that, and he reacted easily, "We have traveled a long, tiresome distance, and only today reached Northrend from elven portals. I believe we both have information that can be shared to mutual benefit."

The lord nodded. "I understand, but the world should already know that the war with the Lich King is long over, and that in the midst, the surviving Knights of the Silver Hand had joined with the Argent Dawn to form the Argent Crusade."

Deynora felt her ears twitch upwards with attention, and hers was not the only head to face towards the lord. Raeloth put their hopes in a question: "Over? And the traitor prince, who sacked our homes and committed such atrocities to both our peoples?"

There was a righteous, satisfied smile on the aged paladin's face. "The Lich King is dead. Our many, many love ones who were lost have been avenged."

It came unbidden, and none could say who had begun it, but from each and every elf in earshot, their voices rose in a unanimous roar. Deynora's was among the cry, and she could detect it from Dor'rath beside her and a dozen others she recognized. It was a victory roar, one of emotions and hurt, vengeance, and even one of sorrow.

The humans started at the cry, of course, but Deynora could see the understanding on their faces. These were men of Lordaeron, weren't they? They knew the elves' hurt, even if racist, bigoted assholes like Othmar Garithos existed. Surprise was most prevalent, as apparently the death of the Lich King was a known thing, but to the Exilee, who have been stranded on Outland, this was news, and it was vengeance, and it was _sweet!_

Among the raised arms and raised weapons of their roar, she could not see Thomas, but the human let them have their celebration, knowing what it meant to them. He was a good man, that Thomas. They all were thankful to their Deliverer.

It took some time for them to settle, as those in the far back informed those who hadn't heard of the news, and the cheer would begin anew again and again, but when it settled, she could again see Thomas, in the front with a new bearing and confidence. The kindly paladin had a smile at their reaction, seeming to find heart in their elation.

Of course, he did not yet known of the fate of the southern world, away from Northrend. Let him have his moment, for they would soon rip that away from him. The world was not kind enough for any lasting happiness. So Thomas told the lord, also requesting to break the news privately so his men could rest, and Herrad granted his request, leading Thomas, Raeloth, and Genveera towards the keep. A stout band of defenders kept near the lord, while Deynora and the other Ashblades matched the same for Thomas.

Raeloth left word to an officer of how he wanted them distributed, and he left Captain Maloree in charge of the arcane guardians and wagons. As they approached the stone ramp of the keep, Deynora noticed the subtle hand gesture from Jerath, and she came to his side, straining her ears for the breathless whisper he was sure to use – Jerath had a strange set of skills, even for a ranger.

"_Progress?"_

Deynora noticed Meyanna pressing to her left, opposite of Jerath, and she was listening in too. That made Farron the one just adjacent to her, lurking before the inseparable trio of Sarrine, Loraeoth, and Jaden.

Seeking to imitate him, Deynora exhaled too lightly even for her own ears, _"It is impossible to juice the spell how you wish. Maloree and the Grand Warlock agree."_

Meyanna cursed under her breath, one soft boot scraping the stone, but she kept the frustration from her face. Just how skilled was that redhead? Deynora noticed Farron lean in for Meyanna to repeat the news. Where was Velanee, who also conspired with the former Bloodwarders?

Jerath pressed, _"Is it enough?"_ Despite Deynora barely picking it up, Meyanna turned from her conversation eagerly.

Deynora inhaled and exhaled once first. _"He will not be able to enchant even a single arrow, but it is enough for tricks."_

The bearded ranger – how ridiculous was that! – nodded. _"Good. He is intuitive, and so will manage with it more than us with all our power."_

"_With this,"_ Meyanna said from the other end, just as faint as Jerath, _"we will truly be oath-breakers."_

"_Meyanna, your respect for tradition is admirable, and your honor eclipsing, but the world is so changed you can hardly call our old oaths still binding,"_ Farron mentioned from the side, conversationally as opposed to their conspiratorial undertones. _"Our race has evolved from the proud high elves we once were, and our kingdom and land, to which we swore, have been razed and taken from us. We are no longer Rangers of Quel'thelas; we are the Ashblades of our Deliverer, Thomas Swiftblade."_

Proud Meyanna seemed to quake at the suggestions, and her bold conviction seemed absent, yet she said, _"I understand the necessity, but the play of words and terms and clause does not change the betrayal of the heart of the words we swore. This has my support but not my confidence."_

"_You are a brave woman,"_ Farron continued, and he caught the redhead by the arm, pulling her aside to continue their conversation. Relaxed Farron and upright Meyanna – the match was predestined, yet the irony remained the juiciest bit of gossip for the sin'dorei since the meetings of Thomas and Sarrine.

Velanee replaced the pair, striding at Deynora's left from a place undetermined.

The keep was not complex within, but Deynora could recognize the strategy to its closely packed walls, its alcoves, and the spiral pattern it sent invaders through before they could advance. The dark stone remained lit from the measured torches.

The silver haired lady said to her then, _"Without mages, you hold the highest advantage here, Deynora, but remember that the human paladins often work as spell-breakers. In aggression, keep subtle and deceptive in your weaves, for the blunt will be smashed apart without hesitation."_

"_I know my work."_

Velanee nodded, then glanced at Jerath with her striking, clever eyes. The gold bearded man nodded without words, and Velanee left them, making distance without notice. She stopped beside Dor'rath, and Deynora knew the rogue would be receiving a similar encouragement for synergy between his two trades. Last would be Saela, the priestess-ranger, who's primary mission was the preservation of Thomas' life in critical times.

Before the silverhead got that far, they had already reached the final chamber of the keep, where a long wooden table laden with maps, reports, and commands was stationed. The men within the chamber saluted but quickly turned back to their work, hardly mindful of the sudden presence of over a dozen blood elves.

"I assume you don't carry any good news," the lord said as he stopped at the head of the table, peering at the maps only briefly. "Your mention of war was not the one up here, was it?"

"I'm afraid not," Thomas returned, but his eyes were fixed to the map. There was no greater tool than it to display where the known centers of the enemy were. "Can you accept hard truth standing, or do you wish to sit?"

The paladin grunted. "I haven't left the war yet, lad. Lay it plain."

Deynora and the other Ashblades waited tensely. Thomas spoke indifferently: "Darnassus has been razed. Ogrimmar has been razed. Thunderbluff has been annihilated. The Exodar has been shattered. Silvermoon City has been razed. Dalaran has been taken from the sky. The undead Lordaeron has been razed. Ironforge has been razed. Stormwind... has been razed. In only a few days, friend, the greatest powers of the world have been taken and destroyed."

The skitter of bugs could be heard in the sudden silence of the room. An aide dropped his reports, spilling papers over the floor.

Several long moments later, Lord Goutsting demanded quietly, "By whom?"

"We call them daemons," Thomas said, still intent upon the map. "Black skinned fiends, from where we still do not know. We do know, however, that they have concentrated in Northrend, and they send their strongest minions, whom we call the Sightless, through portals to strike the rest of the world. The bastions of defenders are very few now."

"Impossible!" one of the officers shouted, and his heavy gauntlet slammed into the table. "They have appeared only recently, and we have contained them to Northrend. There is no way they possess the strength and numbers to successful siege, impregnate, and raze the greatest capitals of the world."

The lord had shadowed eyes then, Deynora saw, and he paced from the table to face the painting of a valiant human on the wall. The others within the room turned to him, their eyes wide and hopeful, demanding word and confidence from their ruler. Instead of inspiring them or denying Thomas, he muttered gruffly, "The fighting here has been tough, friends. Not even the Scourge proved individually as terrible as what has sieged our walls these last weeks. Even our finest paladins can be dragged off into the night."

He turned, and they could see the violent light sparking near his eyes. The paladin was filled with power, and his rage was clear. "Say it again, Ranger-General of the Exilee. Speak truth and tell me the world has fallen without us, and that we are alone in our defense in these ravaged wastelands."

Thomas looked up, somber. "I witnessed the ruins of Stormwind with my own eyes. However, lord, you are not alone here. Rebels like us remain, to bolster what ranks we can. We march now northward, to take the fight to the daemons and to slay their terrible master, no matter his make."

Lord Goutsting shook his head. "You will have to march without us. New Hearthglen must hold until Lord Eyenhart returns from the north."

"Assuming he still lives," Raeloth put in cynically. He remained stoic through the looks shot his way. "When did you last receive word from him?"

"He has no messengers, but though his band was small, it comprised entirely of paladins, hundreds of them. Your five-hundred soldiers would sooner fall than any of that force."

Deynora glanced at Thomas, but the Ranger-General seemed unperturbed. "Not if the Sightless daemons got the jump on them first. If the same that claimed Stormwind comes for him, none will survive. Frankly, lord, we have been preparing for exactly this threat, and we can only hope our best constructions and work will pay off."

None missed the uncertainty in his voice, subtle though it was. Deynora's mind flashed images of the proud city of Stormwind, razed to ash and rubble, and the thoughts merged with that of Silvermoon after the Scourge invasion, knowing her ancestral home was in ruins yet again. Could just their five-hundred stop whatever had done that?

"The Light will watch over him," Lord Goutsting promised, and he addressed the map again. "And you, brave souls. The enemy holds no base or camps, but we have determined a few blighted holes that they return to more often than usual. If you still need a taste of their fangs and acid, those will be a fine start. Otherwise, we can chart a course to avoid them so far as Crystalsong Forest, if your elves are willing to face such a place."

Thomas and Raeloth spoke at nearly the same time: "We'll hit them all-" "We'll avoid-"

They stopped and glanced at each other. Raeloth's long, charcoal eyebrow rose. "It is not like you to incite danger, Shadow."

Thomas shook his head, leaning over the map again. "We need to get our blades bloody. Nearly every Exilee out there is hungering for a fight, and I want them disillusioned to this foe as quickly as possible. Bodies that explode? Tentacles morphing out of black-skinned bodies? We don't know what any of that actually entitles yet, and I'd rather we see it in controlled assaults than be surprised in a desperate pitch. Lastly, I am not inclined towards letting any of these bastards live, so long as I have a choice in it."

Golden haired Genveera glanced at the present humans before muttering in Thalassian, _"Will you risk our lives for their punishment?"_ Deynora felt indifferent from their conversation, knowing she did not care which way it ran. She assumed it was the same for all the Ashblades since accepting that mantle.

Thomas did not budge from the map, but he returned in Common, "You heard my reasons already, Genveera. I am trusting the two of you to ensure the rational exceeds any vengeance, but I will not cringe when the two coincide."

"Fair enough," the blond replied tersely. Deynora did not let her personal feelings show then either. Bloodgem-addicted whore. She'd have Genveera replaced in a heartbeat if there was one better suited to her place of leadership.

Like Merridan.

The commanders went to work on charting their course, discussing the traits of the enemy and passing tips on how best to approach and combat them. Deynora was glad to notice that the human paladins, though of Lordaeron, were far from the bigots of Garithos and not at all hostile to their presence. It was as Thomas had said, and the world had moved on from the vampiric corruption of the sin'dorei.

Soon, the meeting was adjourned, with plans set to march at first light. The Ranger-General promised himself to their wall for the night, in case of an incursion, in addition to a full score of nightwatch. Lord Goutsting proved grateful.

In this walled city, the threats against Thomas' life were few, and so the Ashblades left only a minimal watch for him – a single Blade – and allowed the others to rest. Velanee took first watch, freeing Deynora to find her own place to set up a cot. Once it was established, she left to find company.

Though it felt only a few hours since the morning march, the sun was already low against the horizon as Deynora left the barracks. This far north, she assumed that was just how the sun moved in Northrend, but the long shadows and orange-pink sky with biting winds left her with the same readiness for nightfall. The daemons, she suspected, would be stirring soon. Her uniform and weapons had not been discarded.

"Lo, 'Nora," a warm voice greeted from the side. She'd recognize it, and the drawling accent, anywhere. "Care for a game of dice?"

She faced the rogue, Dor'rath, with flames licking her arms and eyes. The threat was clear, though her lips had a haughty smile as she exclaimed, "No, I am not up for being cheated of my pay already. But call me "Nora" again, and your manhood is forfeit." A flick of flame touched near his boots.

The dark man was seated on an upright barrel with another before him carrying a cup and several dice, with several humans in armor surrounding him. He had a wide grin at her show, while the humans appeared disturbed. A touch of the cup scooped all the dice up in a swipe, and he rattled it in a show of swapping hands. "Easy, easy, Deynora, it's just a game. The paladins here don't gamble, but all enjoy seeing the hands of luck fate distributes to each. Care to see your luck?"

"There is no luck," she sniffed, and the flames winked out all at once, leaving them in the deepening shadows of the world again. "Only calculated odds and the finite variety of factors, all changeable by your slight of hands. I am looking for better company, like the troublesome trio. Do you know of their whereabouts?"

Dor'rath glanced at the humans around him. "See what I work with? All strict, all stern, and not a lick of fun in these parts. I tell you boys, soldiering as humans has all the perks." Blighted Dor'rath. His twinkling green eyes glanced her way, knowing her riled. "Lovely Sarrine will be playing coy with the Shadow, I bet, while her two pups will follow. The Shadow himself is pacing the walls, wanting a look at the coming of the daemons."

One of the men, a hardened, scarred paladin by look and carry, asked, "Why do you call him that, your Ranger-General?"

Deynora raised an eyebrow at Dor'rath, waiting for his answer, while the rogue only glanced towards the wall in question with his lip up in a half-smile. "You will come to see soon enough, friends. Night is here, and the realm of shadows only grows. These daemons think us vulnerable in the dark hours, but they will come to learn. They will."

It was acceptable as both vague and enigmatic. Deynora nodded, satisfied, and progressed further into the town of New Hearthglen. All around her, she could see sin'dorei mingling with humans, at the blacksmith, at the walls, at the stables and training courtyard. The Exilee had regained their life.

Captain Maloree, Commander Raeloth, and other executive figures passed her attention as Deynora moved, but though their titles and positions were greater than her own, she felt none of the tensions or urges to behave within her station. She was an Ashblade, personal guard of the Shadow himself and reported only to him. That left her free. It was a good feeling.

"Deynora," a feminine voice greeting from the side, and despite herself, she smiled at it. Saela Dawnheart simply had that uplifting presence about her. Turning, Deynora saw the blond priestess-ranger approaching in full uniform. Like her, the ranger raiment was stylized after the robes she had wore in her alternative profession.

"_Where are you prowling off to?"_ Saela asked when they stood across from each other.

"_To find the Shadow's heart-throb and her merry band, but any company would do. I find I can't sit still these days."_

Saela nodded, and her green eyes flicked around them, touching upon the many elves in motion. _"It's the same for most of us. I just saw Jerath fletching an arsenal of arcane arrows. I doubt they are all for him too."_

Just what were that man's skills? He seemed the every-man's ranger, yet his skills exceeded every single one of them, even the Shadow himself, though their Deliverer had a few more tricks than the bearded man. Deynora began to wonder yet again exactly how old Jerath was and who had trained him.

"_The rations will be distributed soon,"_ Deynora mentioned. _"I can't decide if we should find our part or keep my stomach empty for the coming night."_

"_Everyone is a little warmer with food in them,"_ the chipper girl put in. _"Let's go."_

As they moved through the city towards the central supply line, where Captain Maloree had stationed it, Deynora noticed another of their number, an Ashblade called Jon'ah. The man was bent over a bench with tools in his hands, inciting her curiosity. As a ranger, Jon'ah was sub-par, and in their games together in the forest, he was likely the most selfish and self-serving man she'd ever encountered.

Though he remained distant from all of them, Saela greeting him in passing, and Jon'ah grunted back a reply as he continued whittling at something. Deynora shared a shrug with Saela, though the impeccable woman hardly noticed the oddity.

They received their rations, and Saela suggested they eat upon the wall, where they too could watch for the coming threat. They kept their bows across their laps as they ate, peering at the frozen land as much as at each other. The shadows out there crawled together, amassing.

XxX

Farron laughed lightly, saying, _"Leave them be, Meyanna. They may be kids, but they are skilled rangers each, especially Miss Longray."_

The stern redhead kept her gaze narrow as she watched the three pass by in their intimate conversations. _"The troublesome trio is an appropriate title. Their immaturity incites ruin, and if her actions damage the Shadow...!"_

"_Working together, there are none more dangerous than those three,"_ Farron mentioned, watching her with a level gaze. His smile remained fixed, to Meyanna's disdain. _"Their bonds are strong, and their experience together worth remark. Besides, Sarrine is a pleasant girl. Innocent, but honest. Name one more suited for the place."_

"_Velanee."_

The complete certainty and quickness of the reply surprised Farron. He blinked at her, then at the trio again. "Huh. _It seems you have me beat, yet Sarrine made a move, while Velanee did not. You could sooner complain it's not Miss Dawnheart – or Miss Duskfury, for that matter."_

"_Not one of us would tolerate Genveera taking a personal place at the Shadow's side. That woman is a disgrace."_

"_She has a sound head on her shoulders though, and she has the most experience in leading rangers, with the exception of perhaps Jerath. Ignore her personal flaws, Meyanna, so long as they do not interfere with our work. We... all fed from bloodgems, and many took to that dope worse than others."_

Meyanna remained silent, and in time her attention wavered from the trio to the fields of snow beyond the wall they stationed themselves at. Farron watched only her, knowing what she might be seeing. He watched the tightness appear at the corners of her beautiful eyes, and the tension that flexed her cheeks as she battled down unease and worry. They all felt prepared, yet they all felt concerned.

"_Come here,"_ Farron said to Meyanna.

She looked his way, seeing his calm expression and open self. That man would never recognize a serious, or even dire, moment. She scoffed, _"I am not yours to command about, Farron. Get a grip over what's happening out there."_

His lips tugged into a slight grin, but he sobered his expression. _"I understand well what is happening. Now come here and sit with me, and keep me company as we watch the shadows of the world come to claim our lives once again."_

Meyanna sat with him. Burn her, but she did – and she welcomed the feeling of his arm encircling her back as they turned towards the fields of snow and approaching darkness.

XxX

"How far are they now, five-hundred yards?" Thomas asked rhetorically, watching the dark void creeping closer. "Let's make a little game of this. Lord Goutsting, you are certain that is the enemy? We cannot make out a single detail of them."

The human paladin nodded, his expression grim. "That's them alright – the vagueness is a trait, some spell coating their skin to distort their appearance."

Thomas nodded to the rangers around him. "Target practice, anyone?" He drew an arrow and calmed himself, pulling it into the correct position and the precise distance. He took his aim, then loosed. The arrow shrieked off, streaming with a trail of white motes.

They all watched it hone down, eventually striking through one of the dark shapes in the formless mass. With a whistle, he exclaimed, "A fine set of arrows, Jerath. I haven't seen one of its like before, at least without channeling spell work."

The bearded man nocked one and drew back as well, taking his own aim. Upon firing, they watched the silver mark flew first up, then down, and it took the same moving shape through the chest again, only inches from Thomas' own. He grunted. "You were right on identifying that one as Sightless."

The creak of aged wood being pulled drew all of their attention, and they saw the blindfolded Merridan there with his own bow – black and recurve, but longer than either of them held. The Ranger Lord fired, and all watched the silver arrow streak off with its white trail.

Fascinated, they saw it touch down also on the same figure, yet higher – it's throat? Head? - but then it stumbled and fell, the three illuminated arrows vanishing as the figure was trampled over. Coy, Merridan asked, "Did I hit?"

"Elves," one of the paladins breathed out, jealousy and amusement obvious, unable to realize all present rangers could hear him.

Thomas didn't bother wondering at the abilities of his friend; it was to be expected at this point. He asked instead, "How do you know where to aim to fell them?"

"That is a mystery I myself do not have an answer to," Merridan admitted with a shrug. "But I do know that their chests are protected from simple damage, and whatever dark heart that beats there is no longer a weakness to exploit."

Looking down the line for rangers, Thomas saw Jerath, Merridan, Genveera, and Flaerie to his left, while Velanee, Sarrine, Loraeoth, and Jaden stood at his right. The other Ashblades would surely arrive before the daemons reached the walls, but he announced, "You heard the Ranger Lord. Now let's have at them."

He drew an arrow, and the sound of eight others followed suit. Volleys began to rain down upon the dark mass, many of them glowing with whatever fiery or icy enchantment the rangers added to their arrows. Immediately, the horde began to pick up speed as their numbers began to fall and thin.

Shortly into the assault, as its effectiveness was proven, Lord Herrad Goutsting said in a reverent tone, "The legendary rangers of Quel'thelas. Just how could the Scourge have overcome you?"

There was a pause in the firing, while one arrow streaked visibly off course. Only Merridan did not take it back up immediately, though even Thomas was listening as he continued his next shot. The high elf answered, "Treachery, my lord. Though the Scourge's numbers appeared limitless and their abominations would take dozens of bolts to fell each, they could not have advanced into our forest past our Elfgates. Yet, one of our own, who's name has been blighted and stricken from our history books, turned sides and gave access past our gates for Arthas' forces. I can proudly say we ruined their force in the attack, but for each of us that fell, so did their numbers grow, and that Scourge machine was left unstoppable by our men."

The lurking shadow over the snow broke before one hundred yards, and its edges vanished off into the snow, until there was no longer a clear force. Thomas exhaled when he noticed, ceasing his bow. He did not want to ask if that was all, but he felt a sense of disappointment at not being able to see the enemy up close – still, the victory was encouraging, and it reaffirmed that this foe could be triumphed over.

Merridan did not feel such reluctance, and he questioned the lord at the break in the enemy's line. Herrad shook his head, "I suspect that is all we will see tonight, and I thank you for your work, as our archers would not have managed such accurate or deadly shots and not nearly at your distance. From what you've told me, I fear that what we face here is only a preemptive force for their main body. Testing pockets of resistance, wiping away civilian populations and basic militia."

Jerath had a frown. In accented Common, he mentioned, "I counted only six Sightless. Is that typical to an attack?"

Lord Goutsting shook his head. "In small excursions. For that size, I would have guessed between twenty and thirty."

Thomas checked his quiver, finding only half of Jerath's arrows remaining. His obvious motions attracted the others to do the same, while he said, "Then the night is not yet over. Jerath?"

"Nothing," the bearded man exclaimed, peering out intently over the snow. Thomas' own look said the same, but the suspicion did not leave his gut. "Wait..."

Thomas set and arrow and pulled, aiming suddenly downwards, to eighty yards. He fired when Jerath did, both of them streaking towards blank snow – and stopping in the air before the ground. Two shapes flickered into sight, roaring. He had seen it too, the slightest impressions of footfalls in the snow, of an enemy under shroud.

"Again!" he shouted, firing a new bolt, while the Ashblades and Genveera scrambled for their own targets. Thomas had hardly released two more before he roared, "Cover!"

The trained rangers dropped to their knees, ducking behind the stone covers atop the ramparts. Lord Goutsting ordered the same for his own men, just as something crashed into the wall, trembling the stones. Dark thorns shot where they had been standing, followed by a glob of some liquid passing over them into the town.

Thomas stood to fire another shot, then ducked just as more thorns deflected off the stone walls. He cursed. The entire wall shook again, while a sound like a snapping tree reached their ears. Grim, Lord Goutsting announced, "They've reached the gate! To arms!"

"Shadow!" a voice bellowed, and Thomas saw the other Ashblades crouched behind them, now their full force: Saela, Dor'rath, Deynora, Jon'ah, Meyanna, and Farron, all holding their bows with arrows nocked.

"Light's blessing, Ranger-General!" Lord Goutsting shouted, then stood and sprinted down the ramparts towards the gate. His shield rose to block whatever was sent his way, while his defenders rallied to him and his orders.

Thomas' eyes found Raeloth's. "Commander, I want the guardians waiting at the gate!" The entire wall shook again, as whatever organic siege-engine was hammering them hit again. "The walls are mine!"

Raeloth dove forward and leapt clear of the wall, managing the twenty-something foot drop with practiced ease. There was no arguments from him, knowing their duties in this battle would be separate. He would have to trust Thomas to work with the mages and archers as well as his rangers.

There was a loud shriek, just before a dark shape landed onto the wall from the outside. Talons scraped off the stones in search of halting its momentum, and then its hulking body hit the far dividers of the wall, and its head turned their way. Thomas dropped his bow and Shadow-Stepped behind it, burying his dagger in its black back.

The carapace hardly parted for his weapon, but Thomas tugged back, sending the creature jumping to two legs and rearing like a horse. It's shriek was deafening. Solid thumps rocked its body, and Thomas knew rangers were pelting its underbelly.

With a shout, he turned the body aside and had it crash against the stone again, prying his dagger free. Claws raked his way as it flailed, but Thomas hardly managed a step around it when a spear left its back in a thrust to his chest. His dodge was clumsy, and he got clear only to fall prey to the next swipe of claw, sending him back with a sharp sting across his belly.

Soft-soled boots scrapped across the stone ramparts as Thomas slid to a stop, and he sprinted back just as the creature found its feet again, tensed and low like a panther. That had been no spear, he realized, as the black shaft snapped his way again. One of its tentacles, with three others on its back, keeping low like folded wings.

From the colorful lights dancing above them in the night sky, Thomas could make out the sockets of where the thing's eyes should have been. He faced the Sightless creature with a new grimness.

Its head blew off.

Thomas started at that, skidding to a halt to avoid the spray of blood, and he watched as the now headless body was thrust from an invisible force over the edge of the wall, towards the snowy plains again. He could hear the sickening sounds of the creature's body twisting and exploding, committing it to memory.

A firm hand grasped his shoulder and thrust Thomas behind the stone divisions of the ramparts, and he heard Merridan's angry voice shouting, _"Don't fight them, you imbecile! You are the Ranger-General! Lead!"_

Thomas grasped his bow when Merridan thrust it at him. His lips drew thin, watching his friend continue engaging the foe, but he shouldered his weapons and reassessed the wall. The Ashblades remained around them, some fighting from cover, and the others holding at his back for defense. Further out, he could see their regular elven archers and mages attempting to fight, and several were clearly dead, riddled with black thorns or revealing only a gruesome half of a body.

"_Cover!"_ he roared in Thalassian, darting towards the archers. _"Attack when you are clear, damn you!"_ The Ashblades fanned around him in their protective circle, keeping pace. He added, _"Shields up, mages!"_

Their was a telling crack from beneath them, and all but the rangers stumbled atop the wall. The gates had been breached. A hundred voices rose up in defiance from the ground, yet even that was overcome by a high-pitched whirling sound and deep hum. The arcane guardians were powered and ready.

From his peeks between the stones, Thoams saw a Sightless taking aim from the ground, and he Shadow-Stepped to the fool standing up and open as he drew an arrow. Yanking the archer down, Thomas yelled at the wide-eyed blood elf, _"Behind cover while you load!"_ A new glob of acid passed over them, and the elf stared at it in shock. _"This is combat!"_

Throwing the cloak of stealth over him, Thomas looked over the edge, gauging the enemy again. Only five remained outside the city now, with the others cramming into the narrow tunnel. Fireballs and icy bolts glanced off their carapaces, however, while most of his archers were missing their shots. Even those that hit only deflected off.

"_Archers, magisters, GET DOWN!"_ he hollered, feeling his voice going hoarse. They weren't appropriate for this foe. He hardly glanced at the Ashblades before yanking his bow down and drawing an arrow. In five seconds, Thomas had let off three shots. The Ashblades followed suit, piercing the carapace of the enemy, until the fiends collapsed in violent eruptions of acid bombs. Once the last one fell, with nearly a dozen arrows over its screaming form, Thomas jumped from that end of the wall to the other, overlooking the infiltrated town.

A fierce smile formed over his face. Below, a score of arcane guardians – not even half of what Donvorei had produced – were leaving a mess of the thirty or so Sightless that had made it inside. Even the explosive finishes were soaked by the mana shields around each guardian, leaving their metallic bodies untouched.

One lost its shields as several Sightless leapt onto its massive body, yet still it systematically crushed each, unyielding, with minimal damage done to its form. Around Thomas, he noticed archers and rangers assist in bringing down the last of the Sightless, while Lord Goutsting's paladins filled the gaps between the guardians, using disciplined and trained techniques to slay a Sightless and escape its death.

In short order, the battle finished, with the losses minimal. Thomas did not join in with the victorious cheer and celebration, and the Ashblades noticed. Even Genveera questioned, _"Shadow?"_

Thomas turned from the scene below to look down the ramparts again. He saw Saela and several healers working with the wounded and fresh, recoverable dead, but his attention set upon the nearest mage. He chose Common for his lurking fury:

"You, magister!"

The blond blood elf blinked at him, and she hurriedly curtsied her purple robes. "Ranger-General."

Catching the attention of the most of their forces, Thomas approached her and demanded, "You are a magister of Quel'thelas, are you not? Have you not trained for decades, if not centuries, of your lifetime to the intricacies of magic and the arcane world?" When she nodded, reluctance obvious, he snapped, "So where were the wonders of your craft? I watched you smother the daemons with flames like waving a cloth at a dragon! Useless, pathetic, pitiful spellcraft! You alone should have left them in smoldering smithereens!"

"M-My lord," she stuttered, "I- But you see-"

"And you!" Thomas cut her off by turning to an archer at the next stone divider. "Where you firing arrows or were you tossing sticks? When I was twelve bloody years old I fired more accurate, more powerful shots than an elven fucking archer! Am I that great, or has something else happened?"

"My bow, sir," the man returned quietly, his eyes falling to the stone floor.

Thomas took a step towards him. "Speak up, soldier. Tell me why your arrows hardly grazed the enemy we are about to commit ourselves to."

From behind, the elven magister yelped, "We are weak!"

Surely flames ignited in Thomas' chest, and he spun back to her. The poor lass looked like a frightened doe, but he did not let up. "Weak? I just spent the last _month_ ensuring that you would not be! You feasted like queens and kings, traveled at easy paces, without demand of late night watches. You were free to train yourselves to health, to get back in touch with who you were. You are a soldier, and you knew we moved for war. Why are you _weak?"_

The green eyes remained wide and she stammered herself into silence, losing whatever confidence she had built with his attention elsewhere. The archer spoke up again – still quiet, but still collected: "My bow is simple wood, my lord, and my uniform is hardly a step above simple clothes."

The satisfaction grew in Thomas as he faced the man again, and he cut back on his bite. He knew already what the issue was, but it pissed him the fuck off that no one had thought to bring it to his attention before they entered a battle.

"Simple wood? What does that matter to an archer of Quel'thelas? Say it, burn you."

The man still could not meet his intense gaze as he explained, "Elves have the same physical limitations as humans. It's our enchantments – in trinkets, garb, and medium tools – that made us great, to compliment our expanding skills. Those Sightless daemons have shells harder than steel. No regular wooden bow and arrows could pierce that, no matter how skilled the shooter."

"And my staff... it was lost in Netherstorm," the woman added lamely from behind Thomas. He remained facing the archer.

Thomas nodded curtly. "So why then was this not brought to the attention of Captain Maloree or _any_ of our officers in charge of the armories and arms distribution? We have the finest enchanters in the entire _planet_ present, with all the supplies we could ever need, and my men are shooting rough-hewn sticks with rags on their backs! And my fucking magisters volunteered to fight without the most basic, necessary tool needed to channel spells worth a dime!"

"Apologies, Shadow," both the archer and the mage returned, with many others echoing it down the wall. The Ashblades were silent figures around Thomas.

He scoffed at it, pointing down at the half-dissolved body of a dead elf unable to be brought back to life. "Apologize to the dead, who might still be here if we had crushed the enemy as we should have."

Without further preamble, he turned from the assembled host upon the ramparts and began to make his way towards the ramp down. He noticed the attention of Commander Raeloth on the ground, and the man nodded to him. Thomas held onto his rage until he called a meeting with his officers.

X End Chapter X -woops

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AN: "woops" fully intended and is story official, as far as my actual WotSE document is concerned. My game plan for the Thomas-Sin side was simple: One chapter getting Thomas in place, one chapter getting Sin there, then one more where they meet. Short, simple, sweet. Then I saw I was at 14k words and barely into New Hearthglen for Thomas and realized how far the chapter was from where it needed to go. I think I understand how Robert Jordan felt writing all Wheel of Time books post-book four.

Anyways, as of yesterday, I finished writing the rest of _Stage Two: March_ and will now be posting it relatively quickly. It finishes how I hoped and sets just the right mood to parallel-supplement-contradict that of Drekthac-Malthon's conclusion. I'm as excited as ever for _Stage Three: Campaign_. The qiraji and Balinda are going to receive some extra importance if all goes well, and they are my favorite scenes to write.

On a side note, I really, really, really, really want Hilda, Snow, and Lysora to meet. I doubt it will be feasibly possible, but the possibilities truly do intrigue me.


	22. Chapter 20: The Way North

_AN: I forgot to do this earlier, but..._

The relationship between Thomas and Sarrine (especially the scene atop the mushroom and the introduction of last chapter) is dedicated to the woman I called my Countess. I don't believe in self-inserts or the inserting or others, but our early days of shyness, mischief, and, well, affection that would make even Zyke blush will stick with me forever, even though you will not.

* * *

Chapter 20

_The Way North_

* * *

X Ranger-General X

The Exilee remained at New Hearthglen only until the next morning. Lord Goutsting and his commanders had drawn up a map to display the hotspots of the daemons, and so Thomas and Raeloth charted their course on how to proceed north. Nearly a score of blood elves elected to remain at the city, those who were not interested in a campaign and those who felt more welcome among the paladin city than the orcish one of Stonard.

They left in their long column, over half a mile long, with the men encircling the many manless supply wagons, ballista, and inactive arcane guardians. Thomas and his procession remained in the front, which included Raeloth, Genveera, Maloree, Merridan, and Lord Dasen.

Jaden, with Loraeoth and Sarrine, marched at a measured distance from their leaders, same with the other Ashblades. Presently, their hoods and veils were down, letting the sun beat down whatever heat it could in these frozen lands, yet it left their cheeks all a rosey and their noses like icicles. Sarrine had already returned her veil, if not her hood.

Licking his lips, Jaden asked, _"Have anymore chap-sap, Lor? These winds will do me in long before the cold does."_

The spiky haired blond man passed a crystal vial, and Jaden gladly smeared some of the clear sap onto a finger to rub over his lips. The sun's blessing on whomever reminded the Exilee to stock up on it before they reached the arctic Northrend.

As Loraeoth accepted the vial back, he asked them, _"We reach the first fight tonight, right? In the canyon, and then we'll push through to Wintergarde around Witching Hour?"_

Jaden nodded. _"Excited?"_

"_I'm not,"_ Sarrine complained from the side. Of them, she had the most cover, with fur lining for her gloves, boots, and now a thick cloak gifted from the paladins of New Hearthglen. _"Any march after a battle is brutal, and... something is different about Thomas."_

"_So he's 'Thomas' now?"_ Loraeoth teased, and both he and Jaden laughed as Sarrine turned away from them, her ears drooping in her embarrassment.

Jaden kept her words in mind, however, and he asked, _"So what's up with our Deliverer? Is he still angry that the men never had their arms enchanted?"_

Sarrine's ears bounced with her quick, slight nods. _"He feels responsible. Last night, he asked to see the face – or remains – of each of the thirty that died in the attack. I fear he may become even more reckless in the coming days in his pursuit of preserving us at the cost of himself."_

"_That's what we're here for, isn't it?"_ Loraeoth pressed, and he dropped his bow from his shoulder to his hand, then tested its draw. Not the best move in the cold, Jaden noted, yet his friend was smart enough to send a stream of mana into the wood first to keep its integrity. Jerath had sent the reminder of the necessity of that through all of the archers in their force, rangers included. Aiming with no arrow, Loraeoth added, _"We watch his back while he plays hero."_

"_Put your bow down, oaf,"_ Sarrine remarked, slapping his shoulder, and Loraeoth carefully eased tension off the bow with a cheeky grin. _"Still, we can't be everywhere and do everything. Caution is necessary, and I believe Elder Meyanna is right in that the Shadow can no longer think like a human."_

"_Back to "the Shadow," I see,"_ Jaden hummed, and he laughed when Sarrine shot him a glare. Her green eyes, narrowed above her dark veil, were pretty, he noticed not for the first time. The Shadow was a lucky man to have her, but by the sun, he better take care of their little Sarrine.

Loraeoth scoffed then as he still sought to set his bow back over his shoulder. _"I'm just going to say it once: if you turn out in any part like Meyanna, Sarrine, then so help me, I'll..."_

He paused there, but it was far too late. From behind, a cold, womanly voice insisted, _"You'll what, young Loraeoth?"_

Jaden shared a grin with Sarrine – at least, he could see it in the twinkle of her eyes – while Loraeoth fought to find his voice. _"N-Nothing, Elder Meyanna."_

Using an eyeless perception, from sound and other factors, Jaden realized that Meyanna was without her warden Farron. That was enough to give even him concern.

"_You three,"_ she started, drawing closer, and Jaden sighed, _"need to sober up your games quickly. You each are highly capable rangers, but there are more forces at work than what we encounter in the field. The Shadow is our highest priority, but we also hold obligations to our race, especially those of the Exilee. You must keep everything in regard when addressing our duties, and it appears only young Sarrine understands that."_

Sarrine shot a gloating look at the two of them, which withered immediately as the fierce redhead continued, _"And you specifically, young Sarrine, need to realize the very precarious place you hold between us and the Shadow. The liaisons between you and he are no secret, but if you compromise-"_

"_Liaisons?!"_ The yelped interruption sounded strangled. _"By the sun, don't pretend you know what him and I are even..."_ The sharp gaze of the redhead, once Sarrine turned back to face her, had her words trail off. She gulped and finished, _"Elder Meyanna, relations between Thom- the Shadow and I are far more innocent than you are suggesting."_

One crimson eyebrow rose up and fell at the choice of words. Jaden faced forward again, away from that intense look, but he did notice Meyanna was just as veiled as Sarrine. The traditional girl returned, _"He is a human in chase with elven tail, Sarrine. The same story has repeated a thousand times in history. He is and will enthrall himself in you, and whether you use that to control him, support him, or else wise, the truth remains that you are in a position of greater influence and importance than any of us – and if you hurt him for it, you may very well condemn our entire body. Even something as simple as falling in battle can-"_

"_Simple!"_ Loraeoth huffed quietly.

"_-leave him, and by proxy us, in ruins,"_ Meyanna finished unhindered, but a peak showed her glaring at Loraeoth's spiky head.

Taking a breath, Jaden decided to involve himself in the exchange. He faced Meyanna again. _"Elder Meyanna, we understand the state of things and the subtle world outside of the field of battle. We did not swear into the Ashblades lightly, or because we think to becomes heroes of legend, like the Shadow. We did it to preserve him, because he is crucial to the survival of all our people. Because he is more important than any of us._

"_And Sarrine, she's a big girl – bigger than I think you give her credit for. Sure, we're all a little young by your standards, but we are each older than the Shadow himself, and we have lived through the fall of our people and the entire journeys under Prince Kael'thas following. If we act out of line, call us out on it, but do not treat us as floundering children to be lorded over by the hall's matron."_

Light, but that steely gaze was nerve-wracking to pinned under. The moment soon passed, and the elder ranger nodded slowly at him. _"Your words are fair, young Jaden, but so is my warning. If you cannot stomach my presence – Loraeoth – then seek out Farron in free hours and hear from him the importance of the political world, even in this campaign. In addition, there are plans in motion it is best if all are aware, if not apart, of."_

"_Yes, Elder,"_ they all chimed, and Meyanna retreated back to her place, stooping into a conversation with Jerath.

Once she was out of earshot – her earshot, at least – Loraeoth glared at Sarrine and repeat, _"I swear, Sarrine, don't you dare end up like her!"_

XxX

"_Archers, ready,"_ Thomas called softly. He and the rangers raised their bows, prompting the entire line of archers to follow. They pulled back on their arrows, then collectively aimed downwards, into the bowels of the icy crevice below. Not a single bow held did not skitter with runes, thrumming with its own arcane power now.

"_Fire."_

They loosed, ending a fierce hail down into the snowy canyon. The nights in Northrend remained bright from the strange wave of flashing lights above them, changing colors of greens, golds, and pinks, and it illuminated the bottom of the den. The bright snow floor contrasted the dark shapes lurking about, which the light could not touch.

The arrows struck those dark shapes, sending up a sudden roar of fury from inhuman voices. Thomas and the blood elves nocked new arrows and drew, then loosed a second volley down. The daemons began to jump about, seeking the source of the attack, and they found it upon the third volley, where several snapped apart in their weird explosive death. Thomas felt the magnitude of that explosion was telling of the creature's power.

The daemons turned their heads up to spot the dark outline of his men against the bright night sky, and their monstrous forms, each different from the rest, leapt upon the snow wall, beginning to climb with claws. Nearly twenty of them began to ascend, from this pocket of hell spawn.

"Captain Maloree," Thomas called out while he drew another arrow. He loosed it into the face of a climber, to little visible effect. _"I believe this is your cue."_

"_Magisters!"_ a strong, clear voice called over the sound of the bows and snarling daemons. _"Light them up!"_

With the call, a second line of elves stepped beside the rangers, and they raised staffs, wands, and other assorted trinkets – customized to each individual caster – as they called upon themselves their magic. The first daemon went up in a violent combustion, throwing its smoldering form off of the ice wall, and shortly after its body finished the damage in its own acidic end.

Yet as the climbing daemons began to find themselves torn into pieces from the spell work, Thomas noticed the tensing preparations of some, and he called without worry, _"Shields!"_

A faint blue wall appeared between the elves and the daemons, and they watched fire, darts, and other projectiles glance off it as the daemons returned fire. It was nearly textbook, Thomas felt, as the wall dropped and they continued their hail of arrows and spells. So he thought, until one of the larger daemons shot off a black... he wanted to say hook, but he knew better.

The claw grasped the edge of their snowy ledge, connected to the daemon by its long chord, and then it contracted, yanking up the entire fiend to the edge. Sightless, Thomas already knew.

Nearby archers retreated behind shielding magisters, bows ready, but plans were already in place. Testing the efficiency of his forces, he called, "Donvorei!"

Hardly a second later, there was a boom and a rush of wind past him. Thomas caught the glint of the massive spear as it took the Sightless daemon in the chest, propelling it back into the canyon, roaring as it fell. The bloody ballista could aim fast!

Despite their preparations, Thomas did not much like that one had gotten that far up the wall. Pacing the line now, where he could see inside the canyon, he announced, _"Magisters, I don't want to see another tentacle leave more than five feet from a body! If they try, take the blighted limb!"_

The resulting wave of spells was brutal. Taking the hint from his words, they began to explode limbs from the daemon's bodies as they climbed, but they did not stop it at tentacles. Arms, legs, even heads were claimed at the joints or neck, dropping them like flies.

When only five Sightless remained climbing, he called, _"Halt! Retreat! Commander!"_

The archers and magisters began to back away from the ledge, keeping their faces forward and motions careful. From behind, a gruff voice shouted back, _"Time to get your hands bloody, men! Don't let them woods boys claim all the meat tonight! Rank and wall- tighter, burn you!"_

Thomas stopped beside Commander Raeloth, watching the lines of swordsmen waiting for the next. Behind them was a mob of healers, keeping the melee shielded and blessed, but Thomas was hoping that would not be necessary. Former Bloodwarders, a pair of blood knights, and a solid body of elven warriors. Perhaps not all weapon masters or blade mistresses, but men and women who had trained for more years than humans even lived, given steel and elvish enchantments.

Of his five hundred warriors, nearly three-fourths worked as spell-swords, comfortable fighting with blades as often as magic. The rest were those who specialized in their fields – the rangers, the magisters, the rogues and assassins, the warlocks, the blood knights, and men like Raeloth, whom devoted their lives to the way of steel. Those men stood stood at the front line with the commander, nearly evenly split between genders.

The Sightless finished their ascent, and they stopped at the edge, assessing their foe. An entire army, against just them. They realized their doom, yet in the hanging moment, Thomas noticed through their disorienting veils the way maws dropped open in grisly grins.

One beast flung an arm, and Thomas watched coldly as a dozen black thorns were hurled their way. The tightly packed line of elves raised their shields and stopped them easily, unshaken. By the stretching lips of the daemons, Thomas felt the first hint of unease. They needed this assessment of this foe... but Light, men were going to die here, he realized.

The same Sightless remained in place, abruptly flinging both arms, throwing volley after volley of those dark spines. The other four began to rush forward, some on four legs, others on two, while Raeloth and his men prepared for the impact. Shield before him, the Commander roared, _"Break that momentum!"_

The trademark sound of the paladin Hammer of Justice stopped two of the four cold, freezing just before the line, while two other spell-swords blast the others with some ensnaring arcane that tied up their legs and sent them tumbling into the snow for a painful moment – even while still holding their shields against the torrent of missiles.

Watching with his immense vision, Thomas could see the places where the shields did not cover the men fully, and he watched black thorns deflect off the golden shells of the priests and priestesses, burying into the snow behind them. Lives saved, with each thorn turned aside. Faults that needed improvement too.

In the hanging moment, as the Sightless still staggered, Raeloth hollered, _"Advance!"_

He was first to move, lunging to embedded his sword in the side of an ensnared daemon, quickly flicking it out to similarly strike one still stunned from the Hammer of Justice. His shield and attention remained fixed on the one hanging in the back, however, which proved his mistake.

Thomas watched the grounded Sightless strike without moving. From its back, three tentacles snapped out for him, one aimed to pierce and two to grab. The commander seemed to sense it coming, darting aside and turning with his shield up. He severed the first appengade, but the second bashed him aside, hurling him into the air. Raeloth lost no poise even then, remaining faced with his opponent and landing on his feet, but two thorn strikes broke his golden shield, and three more claimed his arm and hip.

A different Sightless rose up in a fury, chasing the separated Raeloth, while the line of elves had only advanced enough to engage the other three.

"_I have a shot, Shadow,"_ the masculine voice of Jerath drawled from the side, and Thomas could see the charge of power condensed at the head of his arrow, already in full draw. _"Just that one in the back?"_

"_Let the commander fight,"_ Thomas returned, indifferent. Raeloth knew what he was doing, by leading the strike. He wanted this. Light, but Thomas himself could have that same determined look as the elf did now, the one of challenge and defiance. Raeloth wanted to test himself in combat again.

Seeing the oozing wounds afflicting the commander of their army, Thomas knew he would have to reprimand Raeloth, much as he did to the Ranger-General. By the grin on his hard face, despite the pain he must be in, Raeloth likely knew it too, and he did not care.

The advance of the elves was an organized and impressive thing, working at the Sightless nearly systematically despite the strangeness and unexpectedness of their attacks. Shields up, harry, block and strike. It could have been a routine drill, as far as those men were concerned. At the first signs of the Sightless death-throes, they quickly retreated and hid behind shielding spells.

For Raeloth, it was a show of grace and skill. An elven blade master, restricted by the bulk of steel armor and commanding leathers. Yet his motions were powerful, swift, and just as deadly. Come at him, the commander's presence seemed to say, and anything that reached lost a finger for it. Even the pin between pursuing Sightless and the thorn-thrower hardly seemed a trap, as he danced between missile and strike, unleashing a storm of sword forms and precise strikes. Blood was splashing around the dueling pair, and not a drop touched the elf.

As the third of the Sightless began its fall, one of the men broke from the ranks. Thomas recognized him by the set of his shoulders and the color of his armor – black steel with red highlights, the armor of a blood knight. Only two of those remained of Kael'thas' old armies, and this one was very clearly Flenadar.

The man had a clear death wish for the thorn-thrower. He commanded one of the indestructible divine shields around him during his charge, sword at the ready, while the small spines splashed off his golden shell like a fierce torrent of rain. Thomas had a bad suspicion about how that one would die, as its corpse exploded into bits. He hoped the reckless Flenadar would foresee the same.

For the next moment, the scene became two shows under the bright night sky. Two elves, beautiful and graceful in their motions, battling horrors untold, of dark, nightmarish shape and ruthless intent and method. Light and steel reflected the sickly and dark, as the Sightless returned spells of their own.

It was then Thomas realized Commander Raeloth was more than a blade master. As he cut through an oily wave of shadow magic, then clamped a bright chain around the Sightless with a close of his fist, Thomas realized Raeloth was also a spell-breaker. Light, but how had that man remained hidden as a captain during the war between the Sunfury and the Scryers? His offensive spells proved weak, inefficient compared to what he could manage with his sword, but his defensive spells...

The bubble of epic dueling, of the material songs were drawn upon, popped in the next instant, as the other swordsmen reached the Sightless and assisted with the same ardor the commander and blood knight were displaying. Thomas nodded to himself, knowing the battle finished, and he turned from the final moments of the show to assess the field of battle.

Two bodies remained prone and unmoving on the snow, but they appeared wholesome. Already, the priests were rushing to tend for the several wounded, and a few broke off to assess the fallen, if they could be returned to the living. Thomas took heart in the ring of brilliant light that erupted around them, clearly beginning the rituals for it.

It was still another twelve miles to the hills that Wintergarde was nestled upon. The wounded and weary who fought here were welcome to ride the wagons. The archers and magisters he had led were looking to him now, and he picked out from them the same blond woman and man he had addressed upon the wall.

"_You fought well, like the elves I grew hearing stories of. Now we each have had a taste of what we will be fighting, a weak taste of daemon froth outside their realm of horrors, and we will employ against them every trick and strategy we can conjure in our campaign following. We will not engage them like this again, if it can be helped, but all must be prepared for when it cannot be."_

They would not be so fortunate as to face thirty daemons and six Sightless like this each time, where the Exilee have the first strike and bleed them good before even fighting on even ground. These Sightless were weak, too. Just what was the "Singing Blade" that had claimed the King of Stormwind? What unbelievable skill and power did it have to achieve that through a whole capital city?

"_Ranger-General,"_ Raeloth greeted as he approached from the side. A glance showed him sweating and bloodied, but his chin was high and his eyes still burned with the fight.

"_Commander,"_ Thomas returned. He drawled, _"You were reckless."_

Those radiant eyes glowered, but his lips twitched towards a smile. _"I was routed, sir. A tragedy, but my men fought bravely and rescued me from my entrapped position."_

Thomas kept his own smirk from his face, but he knew his eyes betrayed him. _"Get yourself to a bloody healer. We march for Wintergarde."_

"_Aye, Ranger-General."_

XxX

"In hindsight, we should have seen this coming," Merridan mentioned to Thomas' collection of officers. He preferred the Common speak, as the world had long since moved from the days of isolated races and their private languages. Plus, Lord Dasen was present, so it was only polite.

Raeloth shook his head, still tense in his bearing. "This city was better fortified, manned, and employed more troops than New Hearthglen, Lord Goutsting had said. They had received a messenger only two days before our arrival, and the city was holding strong."

"Forces can move quickly," Merridan reminded. His ears listened to the wind, following its long run from their position to the east, through the city called Wintergarde. The wind touched nothing moving, it mingled with no sounds but creaking door hinges and dripping water. The entire city had been consumed.

Again, the elven commander shook his head, as if Merridan could see him. Could the fool not appreciate another man's blindness? "Not like this. Something is off here. Rangers, can you see anything out of sort? Any Sightless Eye flags? The city wasn't taken from the outside, not with the walls and gates in pristine condition."

"None, sir," the deep voice of Jerath replied, rather quickly. Merridan shifted his focus upon Thomas, noticing the man also watching the city. For kicks, he cast the spell again to blind his protegee. Thomas was improving, now only giving a brief sigh and turning away from use of his eyes. Should anything take his eyes in battle, it would be a little handicap.

Cupping his hand before his lips, Merridan formed a flimsy tunnel and breathed through it, with a spark of magic, _"Listen..."_

Only Thomas heard the sound, and listen he did. Merridan smiled at it. Young Jack, without a lick of magic, likely one of the greatest rangers beside the Windrunner sisters.

"There's a flag, about a quarter mile in," Thomas remarked with his eyes closed. "It's larger, rustles different in the wind. That's frostweave, not the linen of Wintergarde's flags. It's south-east from here, behind what should be the keep, by size."

Jerath took off, his footfalls entire silent, heard only by the wake of his body through the air. Everyone was looking at the blinded Thomas, their confusion evident. It was Raeloth who barked, "I know you rangers have your tricks, but that's just downright silly now. Are you having on us, Ranger-General?"

"I wasn't the one who noticed it first," Thomas admitted, and he glanced with sightless eyes to Merridan. The others followed his attention, though Merridan himself only smiled.

"Well then, Ranger Lord," Raeloth pressed, his suspicion still obvious. "What else can you tell us about this city? Do you know what happened here?"

Merridan lost his smile as he turned his head towards the empty city of Wintergarde. "I can tell you that very recently, a vast number of good men and innocent women were killed here, commander. By what, I only have my suspicions."

"Then suspect for me. How did this nearly impregnable fortress have her legs wedged open like academ on her twenty-seventh naming day? There's no forced entry here."

"I take so much offense to that," Deynora grumbled beneath her breath with the Arch-Mage Captain Maloree beside her nodding agreement. The whispered remark left only the rangers amused. Those who could still smile, at least. Merridan would bet ten gold pieces that that traditional redhead wouldn't smile on her own wedding day.

"I suspect that we are safe to hole up here for the night," Merridan suspected aloud. "I suspect that whom did this is gone now, moving for their next target, and I suspect that New Hearthglen would be next to go. And I also suspect that the same flaw that allowed this city to fall will not be found in the paladin city."

"So out with it," Raeloth demanded, not sharp but clearly impatient. He added, "Sir. Who did it?"

"Cultists," another voice answered, heralding Jerath's return. That one likely could have been listening to this conversation from here to the flag, perhaps even Deynora's mutter, if he played his tricks right.

The collection looked to the gold bearded ranger, as he showed them the flag of Thomas' finding. Merridan unveiled Thomas' eyes to allow him sight of it. That lad was considerate enough to describe it for him. "That's the Sightless Eye alright... but that hammer in the center, that's right up the Twilight's Hammer's alley. Damned nihilists, they've already rallied to the Sightless master."

It was as Merridan suspected. He kept his opinion to himself, merely listening to the words of the assembly. That Raeloth had a good head on him though, proven again as he said, "So they opened the gates for the daemons, condemning the city. The question is why: were the daemons growing frustrated at lack of progress, when we know the nightly incursions are far from any sign of their power, or do the cultists merely have something to prove?"

The answer was so painfully clear to him. The cultists sought to ascend, to prove themselves worthy and cast their eyes upon the beast, to be made Sightless. Could they not realize that whatever sieged mortal walls in the south were only those who tested their worth? Even the Sightless who fought here were to prove their place among their brethren – the newly turned, the broodlings, hardly worth comment or effort.

The Always Watching acted patiently, knowing the world could not stand to his might. How could they stand a chance here? How could they do anything but submit to the beast and strive to also cast their eyes upon it? How? Just _how?_

"Buck?" Thomas questioned quietly. "Are you alright, old friend?"

"I'm fine," Merridan answered coarsely. His eyes burned, but he could do nothing with the blindfold. "Just a bad memory. Keep on; I'm listening."

"No, we'll continue this later," Thomas interjected. "Captain, bring the rest of the Exilee in and have them set up camp. We'll get these gates closed and use the walls to our advantage tonight."

"Sir!" the officers saluted.

XxX

She moved through the city. The blood elves had taken to occupying buildings at their choosing, but the tension and indifference made it so clearly not a home, even to her foreign eyes. How far the exiles have come – the Exilee. She could be proud of them... or more specifically Thomas, the one called the Deliverer.

A smile came to her full lips at the memory of that man. If only all men were as simple as that one. No, only humans were so susceptible, and only humans did she find so agreeable. Blighted, awful memories with the blood elves. So proud, vindictive, and vicious to one of her sort. But not dear little Thomas.

She found his tent as she always did, seeming to know on instinct. Genveera, Genveera... Not a bell was rung in her head, but that could be expected. Perhaps this Genveera knew of her. Perhaps it all stemmed back to the same source. Was Genveera the fighter? That sickly, frail thing consumed in her own lust and addiction?

Snow shrugged mentally at the question, veiling herself in an intricate spell and then slipping inside Thomas' tent. Not even her best efforts could fool this one, she knew – and grumbled over – and the man looked up sharply at her entrance. Ah, but he was not alone this time. Sweet little Sarrine, she presumed, rested upon his cot with such a dreamy smile for Thomas as she waited for him.

With a snap of her fingers, Snow put that young girl to sleep. Sarrine's innocent green eyes fell closed, and her head rested against the pillow in a dreamless sleep. Thomas noticed, of course, and after checking that the girl wasn't dead, he set eyes aflame upon her.

Such passion. Snow felt herself smile wide at the look, but she schooled herself just before she let the veil drop. _"Deliverer."_

"Snow," he growled. Mmm, that was a familiar sound. He'd made it while atop her before. "What are you doing here?"

"_Well, I was hoping on you before the night is through, but it seems that young girl put an interruption on that plan,"_ she replied honestly, flicking an annoyed hand towards Sarrine.

Her body washed with sudden cold when she abruptly sensed his presence right before her, and strong fingers gripped her jaw and turned it towards him. Snow nearly struck the aggressor dead, but as she stared into the intense eyes of Thomas, she kept herself controlled. He would be ready for that anyways.

He grunted finally and released her. "No bloodgem this time. That's a first."

Snow's jaw flexed briefly, but she evaporated her frustration and disdain before throwing in sweet and sultry: _"You didn't think my lust was solely bloodgems, did you?"_

"You're cute, girl, both as Snow and in your real face. That's all you have going for you." Snow nearly cursed herself at the reminder, for her weakness in agreeing to stay the night with him when she knew what would happen by morning. Yet, he had needed the comfort. That she would not deny, nor regret. His attention remained sharp on her. "Do you think I didn't realize the spell you wrapped over my mind the last time? You still owe me an answer too."

Ah, so he had noticed. A simple little compulsion, to make him a tad more agreeable to her advances. The fool likely wouldn't realize how badly he needed the physical comfort then – too brash to even thank her. Snow considered carefully her next actions. Worried, she was not. Not even the Deliverer of the Exilee could hope to match her, nor beat her, nor escape her if aggressions were made.

"_You still owe me a question,"_ she said, and she slid around him to approach the cot. She did not tense when she noticed him moving behind her, knowing his body ready to react swiftly, but he let her sit down and face him again, with her only inches from the sleeping Sarrine.

As their eyes met again, she waited patiently for his question. She agreed to answer with full honesty, but he would not like her answers. As the moment stretched, she flicked her fingers towards Sarrine. _"Shall I wake her, Deliverer? I can make her as agreeable as me in service, and together we can help you forget all the stress of your position."_

"Don't dig your own grave," he remarked, sounding serious even. Snow smiled at him. His eyes lingered towards the wall of his tent for a moment, then snapped back to her. He asked, "What do you intend by me? Answer in full, Snow."

Unexpected. Snow had been anticipating questions of origins, of her state within the camp, or even just who she was. But no, this one needed to look forward, not back, and he wished to better assess her threat to him and his purposes. How very elven of him.

"_My returns are multi-purposed."_ Like everything else with her. _"The simplest of which is the thanks you deserve for what you've done. You saved my life, the significance of which you may never know, and I have no qualms with expressing the thanks of the hundreds through myself and my body for our mutual pleasure. The two others reasons are because of your importance to the Exilee and my interest in you."_

"In full."

Her smile spread. _"You lead these people, and so all eyes turn your way, including mine. Your preservation and your decisions are of the utmost importance... and interest to myself. As a human who banded the children of blood to a real banner, you've interested me – the kind of interest I am not afraid to pursue."_

"And if you have your way, what do you intend by me, Snow?" he pressed, keeping his expression stern. His green eyes were pretty. Very different from the blood elves, with black pupils, but pretty still.

In full and with all honesty. So be it. _"I would continue the fulfillment of my desires and yours, and be your support from the shadows, the words in your mouth when you have none."_

Thomas shook his head. "Strings I don't need." He insisted on Common still, she noticed. Likely to be frustrating, or perhaps to urge her away from the seductive Thalassian tongue. For shame. With his hand raised, Thomas looked to Sarrine and snapped his fingers.

Snow blinked at the action in confusion at first, then jumped at the stir of the sleeping girl behind her. Thomas did not have have mana!

He looked to her again with his steady eyes, and he said, "Run while you can, Snow. Sarrine is my intended, and you have no claim to it. Begone."

"Mmm, Thomas?" Sarrine questioned groggily. Snow crept away from the cot, glancing between Thomas and the waking girl warily. _"Is that Genveera?"_

"_No, my sweet. Just a familiar face."_ He glanced back at Snow as her back touched the tent flap. He could not see the swell of rage and frustration within her bosom. _"One I owe much thanks to."_

Snow canceled the spell building in the back of her throat, and she darted out the tent. The first tears spilled from her eyes, even with a snarl still showing her teeth.

XxX

"_Commander, Ranger-General!"_ the scout greeted upon his arrival. For his long runs, he did not seem much winded, which proved a promising return of the resilience of the sin'dorei.

"_Report,"_ Raeloth commanded, while Thomas, Genveera, and Merridan gathered to listen.

The man nodded and pointed towards the direction he had came. _"A human army approaches from the far north-west of our position. They seem bound for New Hearthglen and fly both Argent Crusade banners and a set I haven't seen. White, with a red flame?"_

Thomas grunted. _"Sounds like Scarlets to me. I'm not surprised to see them this far north, but I wouldn't expect them to work with Argent Crusaders. The war here must have been truly terrible to renew those bonds. What is their distance from us?"_

"_Around twenty miles, sir, but they will swing to under five in passing us if they keep up their current coarse."_

"_Ranger-General?"_ Commander Raeloth questioned, waiting for his word.

Thomas nodded. _"We'll meet them. If they have been marching long, they will know the land better than those at New Hearthglen, and perhaps they have come from another pocket of resistance. Perhaps that of even Lord Eyenhart, whom Lord Goutsting waits upon."_

"_Let's move then!"_ Raeloth ordered, and he turned them towards the north-west, beginning the march again.

The Exilee moved quickly in their marches. Warmth enchantments had been worked into their uniforms buffer out the cold, and with their light elven shoes and boots, they could work to a slow run even in their whole. The wagons were spelled to keep pace, and the elder Lord Dasen rode those. Usually Buck remained with him, yet of late, the Ranger Lord had remained in the political and military scene.

"Deynora," Thomas called as they ran. "Jerath, Genveera, Meyanna, Sarrine. And Buck, if you please."

The rangers closed in upon him, while the others pressed closer to listen. Thomas did not know how private he wished for the topic to be, but the Ashblades must be allowed to hear – half of them were directly involved as it was.

"_Ranger-General?"_ Raeloth questioned.

Thomas waved him back. _"Ranger concerns, Commander. I'll detail you in later."_ Raeloth did not appear pleased by the exclusion, but he kept focused on the terrain before him. How much that one had changed, since his days as a lone captain humbled by the offer of commanding the Exilee.

Looking to the magister-ranger, Thomas started by saying, _"I have thanks to give for your ingenuity. Your enchantment works with great success."_

Deynora's bright eyes widened, and she even started a smile before her lips moved for words: _"More than works, you can already manipulate it?"_

"_Through necessity, I might say,"_ Thomas answered, and his distaste was obvious. _"But the truth is Buck taught me theory and application as he raised me, and I do not forget his lessons easy. Years of fighting with and against mages makes it easier too."_

A simple mage enchantment called Arcane Intellect. Once applied to someone, it expanded their mana reserves proportional to the power of the caster. Thomas, who was born with such baleful little mana in him, was given a substantial groundwork to play around with. He wouldn't find his next field of mastery as a magister for it, but the suddenly available options were useful, to say the least.

Sarrine opened her mouth to speak, but Thomas quickly quieted her with a look and a sound. Reciting the details of the previous night would bring unwanted attention without proper breaching. He decided to open it with a question.

"_There is an issue of some secrecy and importance, that if any of you possess information for, I'd ask that you pass on."_ All eyes turned his way, somber in bearing. Thomas flexed his jaw in hesitation, then said, _"Within our camp, there is a woman of unknown threat and unknown purpose. The name she hides herself under is Snow, and though I've seen both her glamor and her true face, I do not recognize her among us. She fancies herself a courtesan, yet her hands are shaped like ours, for bow and sword hilt, and her skills and motions are that of a master ranger or assassin."_

Looking to those around him, he asked finally, _"Do any of you know of whom I speak?"_ His eyes settled upon a particular blond. _"Swan, if you have a confession to make, this is the time. She moves at your height, with your frame, with your perfume. I have seen her real face and know the difference, but she molds herself in your image."_

The short, golden haired Genveera did not meet his eyes, but Jerath asked, _"These topics are related?"_

Thomas gave a curt nod, eyes still fixed upon the hesitant blond, while Sarrine admitted weakly, _"She spelled me to sleep while I watched Thomas, and it was his hand that undid the spell. My eyes were not clear then, but this Snow certainly has the appearance of the Swan."_

More eyes turned towards Genveera. Noticing the heavy attention, she quickly shook her head. _"No, I do not know her, nor have I met with one like her."_

"_But it seems you know something of her,"_ Merridan mentioned, not unkindly.

After another moment of hesitation, Genveera said, _"I know enough to tell our Deliverer to run from their next encounter, and I know enough to _beg_ that he not use that name aloud, for it may draw her attention."_

"_A little difficult, considering we are in a land of snow, running over snow, with snow falling from the sky, and snow in every distance,"_ Meyanna remarked coolly, but she added deliberate emphasis on each use of the word. Genveera's eyes closed, and Thomas noticed a small shake run over her body at it.

"_Enough,"_ he told the redhead, and he looked around, _"None other knows of this person? She lived among you in Netherstorm, likely serving Kael'thas as an elite. She was a promiscuous bloodgem addict too, though her self seems to not have diminished in the absence of her addiction."_

"_I know another wrought of similar depravity, leaving another mark to her name,"_ Meyanna added, giving Genveera a deliberate, distasteful look.

The shorter ranger was not one to be walked over, and Genveera met Meyanna's look. _"If you have an issue with me, Meyanna, lay it out now. We cannot function with childish animosity."_

The redhead seized advantage of the moment to exclaim, _"You are a loathsome excuse for a ranger and a leader, reeking of drink, of sex, and of mindless addiction to opiates. You do not deserve your rank or position, and every last man and woman in the Exilee would benefit from discarding you and having Ranger Lord Merridan counsel the Shadow instead."_

"Meyanna!" Jerath chided sharply, sounding disturbed, but Genveera held up her palm his way, saying, _"No, I asked to hear it."_

Genveera turned her eyes back upon Meyanna. In the midst of the matter, the group of them – all of the Ashblades – had stopped their run aside from the body of their force. _"And I'm sure Meyanna is not alone in these thoughts. Frankly, your concerns are right. The Ranger Lord is better suited to lead, to counsel, and he indeed demonstrates less faults. For that, I am glad we have retrieved him. I can only offer the Exilee what my experience and training have bestowed upon me, and I promise you that I try to my utmost, but if it is agreed that that is not enough for my position – Thomas Swiftblade, if I am not proving myself capable, I request that you remove my authority among the Exilee and position me where my skills are more appropriately used."_

"_You martyr yourself, you-"_ Meyanna began, sounding furious, but Thomas stopped her with his own raised hand. He turned his attention to Buck, then Genveera.

"_I am familiar with rhetoric and speech, Meyanna,"_ he said sternly. _"Now, if I may have a voice here..."_ He cast a look to make sure there would be no opposition. He felt, in that look, he could see the varying stances of the Ashblades. Light, but the tension was still so real between them and Genveera.

"_You all served under the Swan during our Games of Foxes, back in the forest upon Jagged Ridge. She served as my rival in strategy and leadership, earned through her skill and expertise. Those traits have not diminished, and as such, the Swan will continue her place as my lieutenant, reporting directly to me alone. If you hold issues of what is done privately, then address it privately, rather than allow it to disrupt our active duties out here, on a war frontier no less!"_

Taking a breath, Thomas turned from them both to look out to the snowy terrain. Buck too had been addressed, so he added, _"And only a fool believes that Merridan and I are not in close collaboration over our actions. I told you at the Dark Portal, he is better suited for leadership than I. If he weren't already sworn to Lord Dasen, I'd have him take my place, as it should be."_

Outside their circle, a womanly voice mentioned in Common, "We don't follow the Ranger-General, Shadow. We follow you."

He turned back to see Velanee there, and she looked at him with the same eyes she had whenever they spoke. She'd become more distant since the Dark Portal, however. Noticing Sarrine also looking at Velanee, he turned his attention to Buck, who stood before Velanee. His old friend had no expression over his pale face, and the blindfold removed whatever sign he might be able to pick up.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Thomas said finally, turning away from Buck. _"Keep your focus, friends. Do not let personal feelings interfere with what you know of the capabilities of your comrades, and trust..._ Light,_ trust each other, for we are all we have right now."_

Shaking his head, Thomas grew stern again, forcing authority into himself. _"Now cease this dallying and run. We have work to do."_

XxX

_He is poised to get hurt._

The thought still haunted Merridan. Jack was a strong man, robust and able, yet for all his bravado and his experiences, certainly the underhand methods and lifestyle, he still acted in faith and altruism. Thomas was a good man – not innocent, but good. It was as Merridan had foreseen in that rebellious youth who wandered into his forest years ago, but Thomas placed faith in places that will come to betray him.

He trusted Merridan, didn't he? That was perhaps the first worry. The Light knew Merridan would travel to hell and back for Thomas, and bite any bullet for him, but people changed. Could Thomas not see that? Not everyone could follow the path Merridan set Thomas on. Could Thomas not see that?

These Exilee, they placed trust and responsibility in Thomas, and he accepted the burden with a serious heart. A sincere one. Yet these Exilee, they were going to tear him apart for it. That is what men did. These weren't adventurers who fought for good; they were elves, manipulative and desperate, and they would not see the damage they commit to Thomas in their machinations.

Humans were such a young race, Merridan still bemoaned. In their short lives they could be as destructive and cruel, or kind and heroic, as any elf, but they did not live long enough to fully encounter every end of the spectrum. Thomas was going to need his help still, but Merridan knew he was torn, for the one calling himself Lord Dasen needed more too.

Two lads in need of his guidance, and one Merridan too broken to offer it to either. He could not play this game while mixed in lies. Lord Dasen needed to give him an inch to work with, to enlighten Thomas to the truth. Perhaps that betrayal would disillusion Thomas enough to harden him to the next.

The human force had long since seen them coming now, and Merridan noticed that these men and women were not warriors, instead wearing rags or simple garb. Their arms were single swords or not at all, with perhaps five true warriors present total. One of them as a death knight, Merridan noticed with some caution, while three others were righteous paladins. The last was a plain warrior, appropriately armed and dressed, and he suspected the man as a warrior by class, one who possessed the supernatural rage and ability of a fighter many times his size. He moved with the characteristic confidence of one.

In their approach, Merridan turned to those called the Ashblades in consideration. If he could not provide the necessary warning for Thomas, one of them could. That Genveera was a broken girl. Strong, able, but something dark lurked within her, something that tightened her every motion and word with a hidden desperation. That Jerath had a good head for these things, but what Thomas needed was perhaps a woman's touch.

Sarrine, his current court. She was young and honest as Thomas was, which would serve him little good but faithful arms always open. That too was perhaps enough to see him through his trials, and its singular good was better than most alternatives. But no, something more. Meyanna, should she relax her unyielding resolve, could assist Thomas, yet that was one built upon her honor and traditions.

No, she would not be shaken. There was another, one who possessed a level head but a kind heart. Deynora, Flaerie, they weren't up for the task. But the one there, with silver hair. He could see within her a shining presence, one that sought the same good Thomas did but remained tempered by age and experience. Her name, he recalled, was Velanee. In hindsight, he had caught the wistful gazes she had for Thomas, always masked behind elven facades.

The instant the match was realized, a bright enlightening consumed Merridan – and in its aftermath, he felt very foolish for not seeing this sooner. So much more of the machinations of the Ashblades made sense, and he realized that perhaps the plight of Thomas was not so baleful and the iron fist of Meyanna was not so strangling.

The senior rangers had also seen the advantages in a relationship between Velanee and Thomas. Not in control, not in personal gain, but in the support and wizened counsel that the elder ranger could offer Thomas. That Velanee was also attracted to Thomas for his ideals and way of life only sweetened the match. That Sarrine had gotten her claim in first frustrated their hopes, though Meyanna displayed it most clearly.

Blighted, sun-struck fools! Of all the harebrained ideas that elves could have...! Merridan managed to take the frown from his face just as their escort met with the heralds of the human force. A man did not need to have his pecker in a woman for her to benefit him. Velanee, as a close friend and confident of Thomas, would be equally beneficial, if young Sarrine did not grow insecure and jealous of such bonds.

And if the relationship had been the surest course, then Merridan would be the best blighted wing-man in history and get Thomas both of them. There were no women more proud, vain, and promiscuous than elves, and he'd play the cards to see Thomas into threesomes meant for stories. Young Sarrine and honest Velanee, for their Deliverer? It'd be like working butter into bread.

He very deliberately removed the odd expression that was either a scowl or a smile that tried forming on his face as Thomas made his introductions to the humans.

"Can't say I've heard of the Exilee before, friend," the paladin returned, scratching his beard. "But we are the refugees of the north, returning home after a long season in hell. King Malthon has ordered their escort back to New Hearthglen."

"Light, so you're the ones they were waiting for," Thomas remarked. "I see your Lord Eyenhart is not present. I assume you have more men to the north?"

Merridan noted, with neither praise nor concern, the probing use of Lord when the paladin had clearly addressed the man Malthon Eyenhart as King.

The paladin nodded. "An army, Ranger-General. We number about what you do here, but I tell you now, it is one this world has not ever seen before. Over two hundred full paladins, flanked by Knights of the Ebon Blade and the hardest 7th Legion veterans ever produced. They say raids of only forty could topple Illidan, old gods, and the Lich King... and we have gathered hundreds."

An army of adventurers, the man was suggesting. Merridan took the word with a grain of salt, but he did appreciate the mental image and the sureness of the news. Regardless of the implications, that was indeed a solid core of troops, one not ready to fall apart against the Beast.

"I dare suggest we are not far from that mark," Thomas admitted with some pension. He cast a deliberate eye towards Raeloth as he mentioned, "My own men surprise me every day. Alas, let us not fall off course. I would like to meet with this Lord Eyenhart and work with him in an offensive against daemons that scour this land."

"He stands as King Malthon now," the paladin addressed finally, with no small amount of satisfaction in his voice. "King Malthon Eyenhart of Northrend, whom has banded together the last of the small ones to remain this far north. Lordaeron's remnants live on through his rule."

A curious choice of word, picked from the announcement. Thomas heard it too. "Small ones? I see mostly humans here, not many dwarf or smaller – excepting you, friend." The last was said with a nod to a dwarf paladin, mounted beside the one who spoke for them.

The dwarf only laughed. "Oh, by the Light. These boys are fresh off the boat, thinking us _dwarves_ as small. Ranger-General, you will soon come to realize how out of perspective we've all lived, as soon as you meet only a single vrykul." His rumbling laugh ended shortly, as he added, "I mean no offense by this, friend. The shock is bigger to my kind than yours, and we all go through it. The vrykuls live up in Northrend by the thousands, and each of them stands as giants – ten feet tall are the _short_ ones. I've seen some scraping the clouds at fifteen or so feet."

Thomas glanced at the Ashblades around him, who only shrugged at the mention. Vrykul were news to even the elves. Certainly Merridan had never heard of this race in his lessons of the arctic continent.

Finally, Thomas looked back to the first paladin. "To keep on theme of sharing news, you should also be aware of the dark tidings of the south. In only the last few days, the fortified city of Wintergarde was betrayed and consumed by the daemons. A foul cult has arisen and seeks to infiltrate whatever bastions still hold."

The death knight and warrior both swore, as the paladins turned grave. The lead one gave a curt nod of understanding. "Their hands reach far, I see. We were ambushed several days back, at the division of Borean Tundra and the Great Dragonblight. We hoped to have stymied their formation by burning their base of operations, but it seems the implications of a larger body in the forest holds merit."

"We do well in forests. Which and where?"

The smile was wry. "That you may, elves and Sir Thomas, but the forest of Crystalsong can consume even the hardiest of travelers, elves included."

"My rangers have trained for this. We will flush them out, no matter how dark or corrupted the woods seem. I thank you for the target, but do you have more news to share? The march from Icecrown to here is long, and you must have seen much of the land."

"A few native villages still stand, oblivious to the Skinless hordes but not the changing world. We've encouraged them to prepare for the looming axe-drop of the Skinless. Those, and their master, you will find in Storm Peaks, if Lady Crowngarde's reconnaissance is to be believed. Which it is, friend. Of no particular note, we saw even the chill nymphs of these lands arming themselves to war, rallying to their battle-worn hero of a leader. I did not know the gentle fae to be so savage, though after the Worldtree, I feel I should have."

"All useful information, friend, and I thank you for it. Will you be stationing yourselves behind the walls of New Hearthglen? Lord Goutsting said he would not budge until he received word from the then-Lord Eyenhart."

"Fah, not if we can help it! Our king marches himself for war, and we will be there at his back. Once these refugees are secured, we will follow you north into the fray. I can feel it in my bones, this campaign will not pass before our return."

Thomas regarded his own men with a look, then the leading paladin again. "All together, that is only a thousand men. Half a legion, no matter our individual strength. Have you any projected counts of the enemy?"

The paladin's expression tightened. "None reliable, but each seemed worst than the last. Start with a million in your considerations, but be prepared to see that number bloat in the coming days."

Silence among the Exilee.

The paladin seemed to understand, for he ended their conversation there. "I wish you luck, friends. I have know elven steel and elven magic to be more valuable than Azotha gold, and my king would much appreciate the assistance. From a gut feeling, I suggest you don't consider yourselves so few. The vrykuls are quite numerous too, and they are quite angry over the Skinless. Now, we must march again, to reach New Hearthglen before night fall."

"March hard and fast," Thomas quietly advised. "The way is safe, but the miles are long. Give Lord Goutsting our thanks and regards."

"And King Malthon ours. Light's blessing, friends, for the days of peace are gone."

On a whim, Thomas saluted and performed a shallow bow. The Exilee followed suit, and the paladins tapped their fists against their chests in return. The leader waved the refugees forward, continuing the march south.

Thomas looked to Raeloth, and the commander nodded. The Exilee, with green banners still high, were rallied to march again, still at their quick pace.

XxX

For three days, the Green Army of the Exilee pushed forward. True to their course, they made time and preparations to hit the festering holes of the daemon infestation – whom the paladins had named Skinless, which Thomas agreed was less menacing and more suggesting of the foe. Skinless and Sightless, all outlining the depravity of their enemy.

Donvorei's machines annihilated Sightless with all the efficiency Thomas could hope for. Raeloth, upon accepting the task of cleansing the land, began to send all of the Exilee into training, especially those soldiers and archers who lacked the specialization of their peer blade masters and rangers. Magisters began to teach their fellows the spells of destruction and violence.

The Exilee was already a capable war machine, but Raeloth, with Thomas' backing, strove for a common excellence among them. During the strikes of festering hot spots, the commander cycled in ranks of their soldiers to fight, giving each man more experience in the field. Finally, they had begun facing their own nightly incursions, and the scouts and nightwatches were left to fend without commanding officer supervision. They proved successful.

"_We cannot produce a new generation of rangers, magisters, and blade dancers in only a few months,"_ was the caution, _"but we'll get damn close to it in the time we do have."_

Most fae to Thomas was the fervor the Exilee gained over their new undertaking. These men and women, once lost and damned upon the broken Netherstorm, threw themselves into the training and into the battles, desiring to expand their skill and usefulness. Already, the names of prodigies and upcoming masters was rising from the masses, of those naturally inclined for their work. Warriors out of tailors and legends out of carpenters, the Exilee was attempting to produce.

They were only a few days into the undertaking when they finally reached the border between the Great Dragonblight and Crystalsong Forest, standing upon a shattered bridge that might have once lined the sky with its majesty. A masterpiece beyond mortal innovation, Donvorei remarked in quiet during his study.

A broken relic, however, as the bridge stopped where they now stood, overlooking a golden forest that reached the horizon from their vantage point. To Thomas, their present location was the mark of a great threshold – of an intersection of the moving world. To the north, beyond them, was the Storm Peaks and the seat of the terrible Skinless master who uprooted the world. To the west was King Malthon, marching to battle the enemy. To the east was the corrupted span of the forest, and therein awaited the cultist menace.

"_Captain Maloree,"_ Thomas addressed, still gazing into the uncharted world before them. _"Do you have the material necessary for it?"_

The Arch-Mage exclaimed, _"We do indeed, sir. Linen is in overabundance, and the flimsy material is good for such a minor enchantment. I will have the tailors begin dyeing the material and spelling it immediately. Shall I set the quota to tonight?"_

"_Yes. We will not enter the forest until each man and woman has one. If the rumors hold any truth, I will not allow us to be deceived by illusion or befuddled by loyalty. It will be a tool for discipline, confidence, and pride, if I have read our people correctly."_

Merridan shook his head, laughing softly. "Green armbands enchanted so that we may know its wearer is one of us. So simple, yet by taking up the green band, it brings us a sense of unity, does it not?"

Thomas sniffed. _"I don't care how much dust we scavenged; I am not keen on having us produce new, enchanted uniforms for every single one of us. The band will be our mark. Now, you have your work cut out, Captain. We will camp here at the rim of the world. I will assist in forming our perimeter, but the rest of the setup is your decision."_

"_Sir!"_ Maloree saluted, and she turned to make her way down the broken bridge back to the waiting army. It wasn't long before they could hear her curt orders floating up against their backs.

"Genveera," Thomas called next, _"find two others you trust to take into the forest while we camp here. I want details of what to expect within."_

"Jerath, Velanee," she announced without hesitation, turning to the two in question. Both former Bloodwarders nodded at once – Thomas did not miss that those two held the least animosity for her – but before any of them could continue, Merridan interjected with, "Ah, if you don't mind, Swan, I have words to share with Velanee before the night is through."

A curious exchange, Thomas noted, but he saw that Velanee expected such a request, for she was hardly phased by it and merely nodded to the Ranger Lord. Genveera granted his request, listing instead, "Jerath and Flaerie, then."

The reserved brunette nodded. Another very capable team. Thomas trusted any of his Ashblades, but there were always individuals who exceeded the bar. On that, he wondered why Flaerie had never been promoted to Bloodwarder, in the days of Kael'thas. Though not one to speak much, she at least had the skill set of Meyanna.

"Jumping Jack, of hearth's crack, into the pail of embers," Buck mentioned from his place, drawing the surprised attention of the assemblage. Thomas recognized the string of words. "You will recite those words upon your return, or you will find arrows through both eyes. Again: Jumping Jack, of hearth's crack, into the pail of embers."

A fair idea, before the three could be given the Exilee bands. The three rangers accepted the order, and with Genveera's command, they also left the bridge to enter Crystalsong Forest. Thomas watched them pass under the tree line, then allowed them to vanish from his perception. That is what rangers did in forests.

"To the camp, men. Our trials begin with sun up."

* * *

AN: I'll get around to slotting the full dedications for this story into the first chapter before long... And the reposts of chapters that cleaned dozens of typos. And I'll get around to rewriting the prologues and other scenes. Eventually.


	23. Chapter 21: Shadows

Chapter 21

_Shadows_

* * *

X Ranger-General X

Genveera pulled her miniscule squad to a halt in the forest with a raised palm. They resided upon the wide branches of Crystalsong's golden trees, aware of the menace and hostility the forest felt for their interloping. Paying it no regard, Genveera began to scan her own armaments, counting her arrows by bundles and her hidden knives and daggers. Flaerie and Jerath performed the same.

While counting, she said quietly, _"By giving me a team, we are to assume the Shadow means for more than a simple scouting mission. Our recon will outline target outposts and divine regions of cultist operation. We know our work: find the weaknesses, exploit them, and leave without them any wiser. Secondary is unraveling the mystery and nature of the forest. Deynora would have been better suited for the task, but we are the chosen agents."_

Jerath finished his inspection first, and with his hands settling at his thick waist, he mentioned, _"You needn't worry about the forest. I have been probing it since our entrance, and though its conflux is a bag of snakes, I'm making progress. Already, it speaks to me of the horrors lurking in its shadows."_

Genveera lost count of the times she stopped to reassess this man. Now, she only stared at him, considering his face and complexion. Such a gentle face, over his strong strong features and thick beard. His corrupted green eyes were lighter than the average sin'dorei, nearly still the blue of quel'dorei, and the corners of them remained soft, with only laugh lines to mar them.

What glamor did he hold over his true face, she wondered again. What ancient fiend or god hid within that kin-seeming body? Perhaps her suspicions were only projections of herself, and Genveera pulled her perspective of Jerath back to the blood elf he was. He wasn't so supernatural, but his experience and seemingly endless range of mastered fields was becoming... unrealistic.

Flaerie, dressed in the Sunfury archer's uniform, kept silent, but her disinterest was obvious. Genveera understood this one well: _"Flaerie, you are to continue the Shadow's mission alone. Explore, scout, decipher – mark the locations of the enemy, and then you will meet us again for assault. The Ranger Lord's command was a good one, in this forest of lies, so meet us with the greeting of: the dawn of vampires is imminent. If we do not reply with "Yes, and no, for the dawn burns all evil," then kill us with no remorse. Say it."_

"_The dawn of vampires is imminent,"_ the reserved brunette repeated, and Jerath replied, _"Yes, and no, for the dawn burns all evil."_ With a final nod, Flaerie dropped to the forest floor and departed.

Jerath turned to Genveera with a pensive frown. _"A Sunfury slogan, belonging to Exarch Mandrel. Why that reply?"_

"_I believe in hope, Jerath. It has been theorized by great minds that the corruption that seized our race will diminish in time, and the addiction and needs will be overcome by a return to our old ways. Now, let us continue too."_

Jerath did not move immediately, instead watching her under his heavy gaze. _"Are you alright, Gen? The bloodgem enthrallment was so powerful..."_

"_As I said, I believe in hope. My part in the curse is over, Jerath. My battle now is with myself, not Meyanna, and I will win or I will die, but I will not allow it to doom my duties, or Thomas, or the Exilee. You will kill me before it does."_

Jerath nodded sadly at her words, and he adjusted his bow over his shoulder. _"I do not envy, nor pity, your coming days, Genveera the Swan, of House Duskfury, but you have long earned my respect. Remember that when the mountains upon your shoulders feel escapable."_

They both leapt to the next branch, running over its trunk with sure feet.

XxX

"_So when the danger is most present and your safety most in question, you would have your Ashblades disbanded and dispersed to the corners of the army? Each of us refuse such foolishness,"_ Dor'rath criticized.

Thomas hardly gave him a second glance. _"I will not have every ranger of the Exilee encircling me, when I am the least threatened by this forest. The Exilee needs the protection of rangers. Already, I will have Buck with me, which is more than adequate."_

"_Do you have experience in cursed forests?"_ Meyanna pressed. _"If Genveera's assessment is correct, we will encounter illusions, veils, ancient ghosts, shifting woods, and hellish monsters more real and dangerous than all of the aforementioned. You are still, understandably, new to trying ranger magicks."_

Thomas glanced at her with his lip turning up in a half-smile. He spoke in Common: "I got this far without it, didn't I?"

She followed him into his natural tongue: "At least keep myself or Farron at your side."

"Five-hundred men, and nearly a hundred moving wagons. We need every one of you and five more watching them, not me. Now, rangers, attend the forest! Commander, on your word!"

"_March!"_ Raeloth ordered.

He, along with Thomas, Merridan, and Genveera began to march before the first wagon, where Lord Dasen McAnole sat in watchful silence. The lord, Thomas had heard, often mingled with the men, curious after the ways of Light and arcane from the priests and mages. Each night, Lord Dasen would also assist the men in raising tents, the barricades, starting fires and cooking – whatever task he was allowed.

With only the first few steps, as snowy ground became slushy earth – and later still would be golden paths of Crystalsong's fallen leafs – Thomas' vision shut out unexpectedly, despite his open eyes, and he grunted sourly for Buck. _"Right now, really?"_

"_You mustn't live in the world of light any longer. Once your vision becomes only a tool of times, like your Cloak of Shadows, then you will truly be ready for what may come,"_ his friend intoned, not without humor.

Thomas grunted again. _"I can counter the spell now, you goat-licker. Or better, cast new eyes for myself."_

"_Vision spells are far more difficult than you..._ What in Farstrider's third leg is _that?_" Merridan demanded, switching to Common in his surprise.

"New eyes," Thomas remarked smugly. He could make out a hazy Genveera staring at him with wide eyes now, and even Raeloth who was glancing over. The vision was disorienting, however, as he was facing in two opposing directions. "It's not perfect, but just weave the spell at the base of the sockets, then pull it out like gnomish taffy. The tricky part is holding the blasted things straight."

"Gross," Raeloth mentioned, "yet captivating. I do believe I've blown prettier things out of my nose."

Behind, they could hear Lord Dasen laughing as if a youth, and the noble jested, "Put it away, Sir Thomas, before I sick the royal guard on you! You're scaring the children."

Though Thomas did not know exactly what visual the spell entitled, he knew it must have been as it felt – squirming, worm-shaped columns reaching from his eyes and facing every direction but forward. He faced the lord, affronted. "I'll have you know, this is a serious matter of serious things!"

Lord Dasen slapped his knee and tipped his head back for bellyful chuckling. A good amount of cheer and vitality in that one, Thomas noted again. He canceled the spell finally and turned his sightless gaze towards Buck. "I had figured that's how you were doing it, actually. I know the spell must look silly, but its a nightmare to focus and that length of stalk is necessary to actual see."

"Lady Windrunner or Lord Sunstrider – you can match the legend of one, but not both," Genveera's sweetly accented voice remarked, sounding shrewd. Thomas heard her soft laugh follow though.

"Jack of _all_ trades, darling," Buck proudly returned. "And to your question, I am not using such a spell. I have no visual perception, but much like the alterations of a demon hunter, I can detect concentrations of energy, likely mana itself. The Skinless especially reek of a putrid source, and they stand out like maggots on corpses."

Thomas pursed his lips in consideration, and he returned to Thalassian: _"Then how did you miss the Sightless under shroud when we stood upon the walls of New Hearthglen?"_

"They erased traces of their mana too. A novice mistake otherwise, I'd say, if they hadn't."

By then, they had entered the forest, and Thomas could hear the fae sounds and strange quiet in the woods – the tinkle of active spells, the groaning of ancient wood, the distant trample of some hooves, and birds that sounded as if angry. Without even seeing, however, Thomas could feel the menace of the woods. It was unwelcoming, pained, and full of a misery he had never encountered before.

With a small apology, Thomas canceled Merridan's spell over his eyes, and he blinked against the sudden light of the world that returned to him. Visually, Crystalsong appeared as if a regular woods, of thick trees bearing uniformly gold leaves. Studying it to a closer regard, he noticed the sharp, angry bends in the branches and the unnatural light within shadows and distant reaches.

This forest was still very much alive, but despite all his time in over a hundred woods, Thomas had never felt so alien to one. A thought struck him, of a memory, and he said, "It's as if we are walking through a perpetual displacement spell."

After a moment of surprised silence, Genveera remarked, "That was Jerath's assessment as well."

Thomas nodded. "I can see why. If I didn't know better, I might even accuse this forest of one massive illusion. There's so much mana and channeling going on here. I cannot tell if these are ancient spells still fueled or anomalies permanently marring this place. Light, but the sentience of it – that's not the will of a forest but some malevolent being, watching over it."

"According to Jerath, there is a latticework of spells here that incorporates leylines and intertwines with the nature magic of the forest. The conflux here is born of a corruption, whatever caused the mage-blight to the east, and the anomalies of loosed arcane is manifesting into dangerous spells. As to an entity in control... that is for consideration."

"Flaerie's report?"

"Altogether, we eliminated the stations outside the blight, but Flaerie found massive operations within. Perhaps five hundred cultists to be found at their lair, perhaps more if they are running tunnels or far eastern camps."

"How closely are they working with the Sightless?"

"Not at all, as far as we can tell. A few daemons, but they seem to mix poorly, and none were of any power."

"Good. I have a mission for you, Genveera the Swan. Espionage, a bit of assassination, but ultimately, I want one of them in front of me for interrogation. Someone of position and authority."

"You can consider it done, Shadow."

"Can I? You're out of gems, and your skin grows pallid and your attention sluggish. I would send Jerath if he hadn't taken that blighted Ashblade mantle. I don't care for Meyanna's disgruntlement, but I need to know that you will survive the next few days alone, deep within hostile territory, where every bit of skill will matter... And you'll be submerged in potent, sickly arcane magicks, ripe for feeding."

"_Send me or strip me,"_ she indifferently remarked in the Thalassian song. _"If you feel you cannot trust my work, take from me my rank and authority. Otherwise, send me, Deliverer."_

"Burn me, Genveera – Go! and godspeed. You're a keen comrade with none more capable; don't let my trust down."

The fair skinned, golden haired elite beheld him with a strange expression. Was it appreciation for his final trust in her or disdain for his reluctance in getting there?

He ignored it, adding, "Take this. Use it as often as is safe. Tell me when your work is accomplished, and if your trials are great, Merridan and I both will be present for consultation."

Thomas had retrieved a pale blue stone, spherical in shape with a twisting pattern of white mixed into its look. With a tilt of her head, Genveera accepted the trinket, and she exclaimed, _"An Orb of Whispering?"_

In truth, Thomas did not understand the Thalassian word she used for the item, but by Merridan's nod, he made the connection between them, committing it to memory as he did with new words. _"The activation is easy, and its partner is on my person always. Knowing your work, I will not try to reach you unless the Exilee is faced with certain defeat."_

The Swan nodded, carefully slipping the orb within a pouch at her waist. Her ranger uniform was formfitting leathers, without any hint of slack or a cloak. Even that pouch was sewn into her pants. Reaching up, Genveera dragged her veil from her neck to over her face, then slipped her hood over her golden hair, until only her green eyes showed and her long ears poked from the slits. Thomas' own mask was tied at his waist, worn only for times of combat.

"_Shadow,"_ Genveera said once, giving a slight bow while marching, and then she sprinted forward, rushing headlong into the golden woods of Crystalsong. In only the first few steps of distance, Thomas could feel the heavy mana wedging between them.

Once she had departed, Raeloth dragged attention to himself with a deep hum. _"She's a flower, that one. Pretty, but fragile, easily tarnished, and heavy boots have already trampled her down."_

Thomas sighed. _"Genveera's mind is highly tactical, strategic, and her experience tempers her actions into a dependable expert. Her flaws are few, but the times are especially trying now. If she did not possess control, she would have mutated to something Wretched, yes?"_

"Aye," Raeloth concurred. _"But not every flaw must be physical. We are a mighty force, Deliverer, and loyal to you, but a dark corruption runs deep in every man's veins here. Keep your guard up and your Ashblades close; not everyone here follows the same altruism as you."_

"_Wise, wise words,"_ Merridan put in, his voice strangely solemn. Though he did not glance at Lord Dasen behind them, his use of Thalassian pointed suspicious fingers. Thomas' hunch proved correct as next his blindfolded friend looked back at the human lord to say, "Forgive me, my liege, but your time of consideration has come. Jack, my dear friend, I have something of wild fear and deep shame to reveal to you."

"Sir Merridan!" Lord Dasen reprimanded, sounding both short and hot. He did not betray anything by saying more, yet the message of dissent was clear.

"Commander Raeloth, keep your eyes peeled on the forest before us. I suppose you do better than most in breaking down its spells and grasps. Young Jack, follow me a short ways, where we may speak in private."

"Of course, sir," Thomas said. A heavy feeling settled in his gut, like the start of a sickness. Trepidation at what his friend had to say, for never had Merridan ever proven afraid of something, nor this serious.

The duo left the march to the forest, vanishing from sight much like Genveera as they skirted the gold-crowned trees. When the sound of tramping feet was only a faint thing, Merridan stopped them and faced Thomas.

In Common, Thomas asked, "What is it, Buck?"

"Have you ever needed to doubt my word before, Jack?" Merridan asked, and he leaned against one of the hostile trees with his arms crossed before him.

"I'd say not."

Merridan nodded. "There never have been secrets you were better off not knowing. I would never lie to you, given the choice, but things are not as they seem. It is my shame that has held the truth from you this long, but you must know – and I assume you have guessed much of this secret already."

Thomas took a breath, forcing his mind to remain level. "Something about the method of the Skinless... your certainty that I will lose my sight, like your own. I have suspicions that something was kept, but not on what."

"I'm not blind, Thomas."

The statement was clear and simple, and it took him a moment to realize it was less an accusation than a concession. Thomas felt an eyebrow raising. "So you wear the blindfold for fun?"

Merridan reached up a hand to slowly work the cloth from his eyes. The lids were closed, but Thomas could see there was a total lack of damage to the area. And then Merridan opened them.

The two men looked to each other in silence, one tense and one morose. It was Merridan, it was Buck, who looked upon Thomas then, yet it was not, not in that alien face, of skin too pale and with those eyes. Rather than the blue orbs of a summer sky, the high elf's- the former high elf's eyes glowed with a persistent purple light, like that of the shadow magicks warlocks worked with.

Of the million questions that jumped to Thomas' mind, only one was put to word: "Do you work for them?"

Purple-eyed Merridan shook his head. "No. Not yet, and not while I have fight in me."

"What happened?" The question was quiet, unsure.

Merridan had a tired, dry smile at the question, and he broke their gaze to turn aside and look to the forest. "I lost, Jack. When those three Sightless came for Prince Anduin, Lord Dasen, and I, I fought to protect them, and I lost. I wasn't strong enough, not fast enough, and not able enough to defend them... so I took the power from them, and my eyes, the eyes you knew, were forfeit."

"Speak in full, Merridan Twilwing. I need to know if I can still trust you."

"You cannot. And you can. When I took the dark, sickly power from the Sightless, it returned favor by trying to take my mind with it. I saw, then and now and forever more, the master these fiends serve. I was given knowledge of their purpose, their people, and temptations that I- it, whomever we were in the mix, had given into once before, and the rewards of our devotion. It nearly consumed me, but I had my purpose and clawed my way back on top and slew the monster before me. Now, the influence only returns if I try to take up that power again."

"Can I trust you?"

A bubble of humorless laughter. "See me, young Jack. I am keeping secrets from you, so you know you cannot. But I am in most unchanged, until I touch that lurking power. Even then, I am too old and it too young for such a thing to wipe me out."

Thomas huffed. "So then there is no issue. We all do as we must, and you confessed on your own volition. Now, is there more you are not telling me?"

His oldest friend pressed his lips together, and he glanced at Thomas again. "You are far, far too kind, young Jack, and that trust will get you killed one day. Heed the warning of Commander Raeloth, as I urged you back there. But to your question, I hold nothing secret that could endanger you or your Exilee, but I am wrapped in tight oaths over one more thing. I have begged for you to know, but there is no room for wiggle."

Thomas tried to shake the unpleasant tightness from his spine, and he joked, "Shall I beat the answers out of your Lord Dasen then?"

Merridan smiled at the attempt of humor. "I'm afraid I'd also be oath-bound to stop you."

"You're welcome to try." As the lighter moment passed, Thomas asked, "Is that all, Buck? You got the bad end of an exchange, and you had to pull me out here for it?"

"Jack, please. You need to understand the total change that comes to elves in moments like these. It is no different than the turning of the blood elves, and I fear you don't fully understand their change either. I love you like my own family, Jack, but I am not the Merridan you knew anymore."

"Then I'll come to know the Merridan I have left," Thomas remarked. When Buck opened his mouth to argue again, Thomas spoke up, feeling a flash of frustration: "It's just urges and thoughts, right?" Buck paused. "That's the difference, how you explained it to me with the birth of the sin'dorei, to keep me from prejudice.

"They were the same men and women, but they were undergoing new thoughts and urges. Those who remained above such could still be trusted, while those who gave in were to be pitied, because they weren't strong enough to face their curse. That's what you told me, and I know that to be true, but with one more thing: the fear of those who make peace with their curse."

It was a relief, Thomas felt, to finally see Merridan's face in full again, even with the corrupted eyes. The eyes of one who fed from Skinless mana. The tightness wouldn't leave his spine. The moment stretched, until Buck sighed, and he gave one short nod. "I don't want to see you hurt, Jack, and there's nothing more painful than betrayal."

"Can I trust you, sir?"

Merridan seemed pained. "Yes, Thomas, you can always trust me. Light, boy, you're relentless, but this isn't about just me. The new thoughts and urges, they change people. As you said, once they make peace with them, that is when it is time to fear – and your exiles have made peace with demons far worse than the mana-cravings of the sin'dorei. I left my people for a reason, Jack. Elvish schemes and self-imposed entitlement were baleful even before they knew the apathy of the sin'dorei. They will use you, plot around you, and run you dead before you realized something was amiss. You are convenient and helpful to them now, but when the time comes where one is better, they will cut you off like Meyanna would have Genveera."

Thomas looked to the forest now, considering Merridan's words. He could hear the rear guard of the Exilee was passing them now, leaving them behind; the elven army moved quickly.

"I don't play the political game well, Buck," Thomas admitted finally. "The Ashblades, they formed to protect me from such manipulations, didn't they? My preservation both in life and command."

"Keep your Ashblades close to you, always, Jack. I have tested every one of them, and they are a solid core. Your lovely Sarrine, Velanee, Jerath, Farron, even Meyanna and Jon'ah. If you wish to stay alive, trust them and no one else. Expect everyone, even Raeloth and Genveera, to betray you at any moment – live like that, and you will win against elvish ploys."

"Do you know why I call you "sir," Buck? You and no one else?"

The former high elven Ranger Lord blinked surprised purple eyes. The question had taken Merridan off-guard. "I considered it a respect thing, but in hindsight, I'm struck by how foolish that thought is."

Thomas met his smirk but ultimately shook his head. "Let's get back to the head before the forest eats half our men. And Buck, keep at my side. You are closer to me than the Ashblades, no matter how tight of a clamp Lord Dasen has on your testicles."

"Vulgar runt." He bumped Thomas in passing, as they sprinted through the fae woods.

It was a shame to see Merridan returning his blindfold in place, though he knew now why the man disguised himself. Briefly, Thomas wondered again at the secret between Merridan and Lord Dasen, but he dropped the topic. Merridan had his reasons for trusting the lord so and swearing such oaths, and Thomas would trust him.

XxX

Pounding head. Welling sickness. Genveera pushed on, unrelenting, mindless to the complaints of her body and her fogging head. She could certainly appreciate a bloodgem at that moment, and she would certainly offer much of herself to get one, should she not be on a mission. Separation of self and duty. If nothing else, Genveera desperately clung onto her ability to keep the two separate.

"_Don't trust the disillusionment of the visual,"_ Merridan Twilwing had reminded her briefly in her intrusion. _"The enemy sees through more than eyes, as we know from the Sightless dogs. You are the Shadows, Genveera the Swan. You have no sight, no sound, no touch or presence. You are an absence, not a being. One cannot detect what is not there."_

Lines were blurring, the parts that made Genveera herself. But it was not shadows that came to replace her. Genveera was vanishing, but the Duskfury remained. Light, but how swiftly she moved then, entirely undetected. Genveera thought herself the better in the subtle world, but how wrong she was!

The fools thought themselves covered by keeping in pairs. Against one of her caliber, both dropped before they even detected an issue with their partner. The earth, as dark patches of life-drained soil and Nether-infused residue, split apart to gladly swallow the bodies, keeping them hidden.

No panic ran through the base of the enemy, unknowing of their predator. Over one hundred of them had already been felled, and they still were in the stage of asking each other where they last saw "Kalina" or "Geoffin." Catching sight of a watchmen crouched atop the arch of some kaldorei ruins, Genveera dropped behind cover and drew her bow, preparing to fell him in a single, soundless shot.

Her vision blurred, and her arm began to shake unreliable. Hissing, she eased off the bowstring, suddenly panting.

_Weak..._ a voice hissed within her head. _I am not this weak!_

Genveera needed to hurry, but the withdrawal was hitting her harder and harder. She needed a quick fix. She needed to feed on mana. The forest? Her teeth showed in her humorless laugh. A poison more potent than bloodgems themselves. A cultist would have to do, one untainted by their magicks.

The Orb of Whispering in her pocket called to her. In moments of trial, she was to contact Thomas or Merridan. Here, within the enemy camp, she could not afford the luxury. She needed to feed. She wanted to.

Genveera stalked her prey, knowing the urgency for time. Her breathing stayed accelerated, and excitement warred with the anxiety within her. A youth, likely a fresh recruit with latrine duty. A spell passed her breath, one without Genveera's explicit prompting, but the result pleased her as the boy fell to the dirt. She collected dragged him from easy sight, threw up a veil, then tugged at his mana, ripping it from him and gorging on it.

"_The dawn of vampires is imminent."_

Elves could not live without mana. There was hope for the sin'dorei, that in time, the corruption of feeding from demonic energies would fade, returning them to their natural states as quel'dorei, as high elves, but even then, their people had grown too dependent on mana itself, and they must be immersed and saturated in it. Until then, the lust for feeding, for taking it from other sources like vampires, would remain.

Genveera did not take pride in feeding. She knew she was sin'dorei, but she wished for the return to race she was born as, where mana was a thing of wonder and beauty, not a method of survival and hunt.

"_Yes, and no, for the dawn burns all evil."_

Her shot was steady, and it claimed the life of the crouched watchman without raising alarm. Running up the side of the stone ruins, she reclaimed her arrow, then took the body down to hide it within the earth. That was the last of the men watching for the leader's tent.

There was nothing special about this tent, purple and dome-shaped like all the rest, other than the subtle watch given it by six separate men. None of them remained close to it, but their attention was clear to one of her training. After taking each of them, her way was clear, but there was still one last thing that needed doing.

Ten traps remained in a pouch at her hip. Explosive spells, bound into small orbs fitted for arrows, to be fired off into the distance. She drew the first, attaching it to her arrow, then set the spell to release after a minute. Drawing her bow, she fired it into the night, aimed for the command tent. She drew another trap, then fired that to the barrack – though each man slumbering there had already had his throat cut. Again, and again, she fired each of the ten into regions of importance, then slipped inside the tent of the leader.

The first of the traps activated as the tent flap settled behind her. Loud, violent explosions. Everything around it would be blown away and immolated. Jerath was not the only one who could craft spells. No matter who was left within the camp, soon they would notice how many of them were dead, and with the firestorm now unleashed, they would have nowhere to run but away.

With her bow now over her shoulder, Genveera drew her knife and approached the darkened figure.

XxX

The march through the charred ruins had been welcome, telling of the success of Genveera. Though she had informed Thomas of it already through the Orb of Whispering, beholding it himself made it solid, and he felt the urging to grin when he caught sight of the fair ranger. Genveera had seated herself upon a collapsed arch of stone, her bow laid across her lap in her wait, with a hooded figure bound by rope below.

"Lo!" he hailed. _"I expected to see your quivers a bit skinnier."_ The Swan had left with four of them, each bustling at their two-hundred capacity. Three remained full, with the last still holding a handful arrows.

"_I played target practice while the camp still burned and nearly used them all, but two days of sitting here has given me ample opportunity to reclaim them,"_ she returned conversationally. Dropping from her vantage point, she hit the ground cleanly and offered him an elaborate bow. _"Shadow."_

"_Swan."_ He returned a salute. _"You have done good work, and the Exilee thank you. Now, who have we here?"_

The motion towards the hooded captive elicited an annoyed expression from Genveera. _"A real bag of snakes,"_ she replied. _"Stubborn and deceptive as they come. Careful to not let her speak much."_

Thomas had already noticed the gender of the captive, simply through her shape in her robes, but then Genveera threw back the hood – and Thomas had to pause. Sometimes, that was just how beauty worked; an image would be too great to take in all at once, and the mind would need a moment to reevaluate what it was seeing to truly appreciate it. It still happened when he looked at Sarrine sometimes, but it certainly happened now.

The perfectly disarrayed hair, silver in color; the electric blue eyes, shining bright on her just barely ash-dusted face. Full, lively pink lips split by an elven cloth gag. The tattoos boldly drawn beneath her eyes were telling, but the pitiful and helpless, nearly maiden-like, contortion of her face as she looked to him was breathtaking. Women like this were the reminder that elves did not hold beauty alone, and that humans too could outclass them, though their spectrum of traits was vastly more varied.

A shame that she had turned to forces worse than the Shadow.

Leaning towards the cultist leader, he said in Common, "I welcome you, my lady, to the glorious march of the Exilee. My name is Thomas. You and I will be making acquaintances real soon. I trust you to look forward to it." Turning his eyes back to Gen, he said, _"Bag her."_

The hood was thrust over the woman's face again, and the slender elf bent to throw the whole body over her shoulder, lifting the weight easily. There was no strain in her voice as she asked:

"_So has anything happened in my absence?"_

Thomas nodded, and he turned to meet the eyes of Raeloth, Jerath, and Merridan, though the last still wore his blindfold. To Genveera's question, he said, _"You cannot feel it from the corrupted half here, but the forest has changed. It quivers, it rejoices, it fears. Someone, or perhaps some_thing_, has come from the far west, and it is approaching us."_

"_Something of power then, and an affinity?"_

"_A forest god or nature goddess,"_ Thomas confirmed, appearing reluctant. _"Meeting it is inevitable, and we must hope it looks at us with benevolence. How many cultists remain, do you say?"_

There was no reluctance from her. _"Very few, if any. I shot down scores in the confusion of the burning camp, and fifty more that tried returning to rebuild. The rest were not strong enough to survive this forest alone, so if they still live out, they will not for much longer."_

From behind them, a voice interrupted their talk: _"Make way, make way! Ranger-General!"_

Turning, they found the Portal Master Lorrin Foxfire leading his partner Ysanna towards them. Upon reaching them, they both bowed, but the urgency remained on the man's face. Ysanna remained strangely pale, and she let him speak.

"_Ranger-General, pardon the interruption, but I fear this is something you must know. I... I don't even know how to begin this."_

"_Is it something about the ley lines?"_ Thomas asked.

Lorrin and Ysanna both nodded quickly, but he remained the vocal one: _"Yessir, mostly that its busted open like the legs of an elvish crack-whore! By the sun, I never would have suspected something like this is even possible. I just... Alright, let me try to explain. When we're making portals, we access the ley lines, and we need to use a port to exit – a node, or access point, like the one in Stormwind, or Stonard, or Wyrmrest, right? But we can access the lines from anywhere, and... Ysanna, help me."_

"_He needs lectures first on what ley lines are, and how the power is traveling through the-"_

"_Never mind! By the sun, we worked with orcs for years and you cannot explain this to a human? Look, Ranger-General, something happened, and whatever did opened up a big fucking hole in the ley lines that run through here. If the lines were pipes, we've got ourselves one titanic gash here."_

Thomas looked between the Portal Masters, trying to comprehend their urgency. _"So the ley lines are leaking their power? Could that be what has tainted the region?"_

Lorrin had a flash of frustration, and he swept himself into a sudden line of pacing. _"No, no, that's not it at all! It's not leaking, and that's the problem! And when I say here, I mean right here, Ranger-General, at this camp, with the exact breach right over there, where that cave begins."_

His partner, Ysanna, had appeared peeved since his interruption and remark, and she now offered in a dry voice, _"The access point exploded."_

Lorrin's head shot up, and he spun on his heel with new excitement. _"Exactly! Exactly that, you beautiful darling you!"_ Shock passed to a brilliant blush, but Lorrin's mind was working far past that as he addressed Thomas again. _"Now, I don't want to get too technical as none of you are masters in this field, but it wasn't exactly an _access point_ that exploded but something very similar. A node that harnessed power from the ley line, perhaps more than one, and had it collected like a nexus..."_

He broke off, mumbling words of Thalassian Thomas had no hope of understanding – likely wouldn't even if they had been in Common – but he prompted, _"So something like the Crystal Trees of Crystalsong?"_

Lorrin jumped on it. _"Yes, yes! One of those, or something much like it, must have been here, and then something else – and I cannot even begin to describe how much power would be needed for this – but something else must have come and shattered the damn thing, tearing apart the pathways and leaving a gouge of this size in the ley lines themselves – or line; I cannot tell a blighted thing here with this rend."_

"_Lorrin,"_ Ysanna urged then, and the man nodded, saying, _"I know, its just overwhelming. Give me a second."_

Taking a breath, the Portal Master straightened and faced Thomas again, steady. _"But while this is all well and neat, Ranger-General, I know you must be wondering what the point is. Well, we know already from Stonard that these Sightless horrors can move access points around, but while this breach isn't leaking, it stands as a point of intrusion and exit. They ripped the bloody thing up to give them a new node, and from it, I'm nearly certain they could enter the lines themselves in body, not just astral projection."_

"_What that means,"_ Ysanna picked up, _"is that they are in the lines themselves, not just opening a portal from entry to exit. If the Blues were aware, they would make war with the whole arcane world at the atrocity, but like Wyrmrest, their post is unwatched, and by the Sun, the suggestion of what can happen should leave us cowering under our bedsheets."_

"_Explain as best you can,"_ Thomas requested quietly.

The two looked to each other, and Ysanna nodded assent to Lorrin. The man took a breath, then sighed. Slowly, he said, _"It means, Ranger-General, that should they possess the ability, they could harvest the energy of the ley lines for personal use, making any such foes a fucking nightmare to stop. It also means, assuming this new power, they can rip a new exits at any point in the lines as they will. Left unchecked, this will ruin the lines and the arcane powers of Azeroth over time, but until then, they can be anywhere, anytime, at their own prompting, with all the power in the world at their fingertips."_

The pale woman added, _"Without the Blue Dragonflight's watch, the master of the daemons could just be sitting on a massive intersection of ley lines and harvesting it unchecked. With that much power, even a hare would be made an all-powerful god. Considering the movements of its minions, it is safe to assume that is exactly what it is doing."_

Thomas met the faces of his officers around him. Each seemed as pale and tense as him, with the exception of Genveera and his Ashblades. They only looked at him, unconcerned. The world on his shoulders.

He asked the Portal Masters, _"Where would we find such an intersection?"_

"_Well, every ley line passes through the Nexus in Coldara – that's the Blue's domain, and the seat of the Aspect of Magic,"_ Lorrin said.

"_What about Storm Peaks, up north?"_

"_...There is only one such place there. None of our texts in Silvermoon has any detail on what it even is, but there is an abandoned giant city called Ulduar at the crown of the world – and everyone knows the giants don't make cities. The web isn't fully charted there, but we know nearly a dozen ley lines run through it, confirming our suspicions that it is of titan make, and of titan use."_

Thomas held his breath, then slowly exhaled it. He looked to Merridan, who was looking back, then said in a voice that shook: _"Old gods..."_

"_Sir?"_

"_Ulduar... Most of you don't know because you were trapped on Outland, but far from a titan city, Ulduar is a titan prison complex, used to seal the Beast of a Thousand Maws beneath it. I'm guessing the lines were the power source for its securities. I never fought there, but Light, no story from it has ever come with good tidings, other than our victory of slaying the awakening old god. Everything ties together, however."_

There was a bubble of mad laughter, and Thomas added, _"The leaders of our world fell in a week. Our finest armies and cities shortly after. How could we not have realized this? We're fighting an old god in the height of his power."_

"_Shadow?"_ a quiet voice addressed. Captain Maloree. _"We are only five-hundred."_

Thomas remembered back to Hellfire Peninsula, when he had stood before the human lord who requested they join him in gathering an army to fight back. That army, he realized now, just might be the only thing capable of saving their world. Only if the naaru can be convinced to turn their Army of the Light on a foe more vile and evil than the Destroyer.

"_This changes nothing,"_ he declared suddenly, sounding far more sure than he felt.

"_Sir?"_ others questioned.

He met their eyes. _"This changes... nothing. We fight on. No, I fight on, and any who wishes to stay rallied to my side is welcome. Otherwise, my Portal Masters will open a safe way to Shattrath, where you will find a much grander army in the works of rallying, of every remaining race. I am leaving to meet the god who walks this forest, and then I turn north to lend my full aid to the man called King of Northrend."_

"_Your Ashblades are with you,"_ Velanee said immediately. He met her eyes, seeing the determination, and also the smile. This moment was familiar.

Turning, he saw Raeloth withholding an answer, again waiting on word of the others before making his authoritarian decision. Merridan explained the proceeds quietly to Lord Dasen, and the man nodded quickly. "We are with you."

"_I am with you."_ Genveera.

"_Light,"_ Lorrin groaned, but he stood beside Ysanna and they joined, _"We are with you."_

To the officers, he looked next, and they met his eyes. Captain Maloree began it, and the others – Blood Knight Flenadar, Magister Sarthas, Warlock Vessa – immediately followed, _"We are with you, Ranger-General."_

To Raeloth, his attention fell, and the man nodded, smirking now. _"And I, as is the Exilee, are with you, Ranger-General. To death, to victory. For Azeroth."_

"_For Azeroth,"_ Thomas agreed, and the rest took up the phrase, shouting:

"_For Azeroth!"_

* * *

AN: Terribly sorry for the delay. It's been a pressing time for me in my outside life – compounded by a frustrating-to-tears inability to write the first chapter of Stage Three: Campaign. I had written, then completely scrapped and rewritten, then once again completely scrapped and rewritten, and so forth, until I finally got to my current and _fifth_ rewrite of the chapter, in which I am finally satisfied. Seriously, I don't think many non-writers know how utterly frustrating and bogus-y rewriting is. Like if my hard drive got nuked and I lost two full chapters of work, I would abandon this story for years in my unwillingness to attempt rewriting them.

More frustrating is that this chapter needed – and still needs – heavy revision, moreso than just typos or my little "-(?)-" notes. In my burnout from Campaign's first chapter, I just wasn't up for it, but I feel I shouldn't make you guys wait. The bad news is that next chapter needs even more work, but I'm working on it.

_(Seriously, it's a huge-assed timing inconsistency, which means I need to do settings rewrites, which means locational interactions/conversation/actions will need combing and work, and, as it is said, "ain't nobody got time for that!")_

The good news is that up next is Sin, and that is always fun.


	24. Chapter 22: Walking the Garden of Gods

Chapter 22

_Walking the Garden of Gods_

* * *

X ProphetX

Sin de Rath the Mad stopped himself suddenly, and he lowered his staff from its raised position to turn back a glance. "I really wish you wouldn't stand there and watch this."

Warden Narelle Blackmoon remained stationed at the mouth of the cave, Watching with gleaming silver eyes that would not blink. Her moon crescent was held before her thighs – nonthreatening, but that could change in the blink of an eye. At least her warden cloak remained entirely draped about her except where the hand holding the blade peaked through. Perhaps that would be enough.

In reply to him, the night elf said, "You seek to breech the Twisting Nether. My Watch is needed now more than ever before. Care naught, for my Watch held the last time too... Distasteful though your display was."

Shaking his head, Sin remarked bitterly, "Knowing you watched that doesn't make me any more comfortable."

"Your mind and will should prevail this time, so we hope. Get this over with."

Taking a breath, Sin faced forward and raised _Shed'lahk_ again. He paused to say, "She's closer to me than you know."

He could hear her soft, annoyed sigh. "Considering that the last time you two were fucking in the waters of a qiraji pool, I think I have a fair idea, Sin de Rath."

Sin lowered the staff again and turned. She knew already that he had been compelled under Seduction then, essentially raped, but her blatant disregard peeved him for how personal this meeting would be that she was being allowed to witness.

"I am being serious, Narelle Blackmoon. I am allowing you to be privy to a moment more intimate than simple sex. At least pretend to recognize that, else wise I will throw you out right now." He let the butt end of _Shed'lahk_ touched the stone ground of the cave, and an intangible wave of dark power pressed against the Watcher.

She proved unmoved by the intimidation. The warden's narrowed eyes of silver did not even flinch within the hawk helmet. "'Closer than a mother or sister,' you said. 'More intimate than a soulmate.' You will hold no more secrets from me, and I will hold you to that for every moment we spend together."

"You don't need to be physically present to know I am returning my succubus to my control." His words were bitter, but he turned back into place again, and once again he raised his staff. This time, he began the incantation, blossoming the dark cave in sudden color.

Lynona, Lynona – how he missed his dearest friend in the days past. Sekara supplied female companionship, but her incomplete transition from the alien qiraji mind to a more human one left her much like a child in many manners. The trust he had for the qiraji was not the same as the one he had for Lynona, nor could it ever be. Tools were not friends. Narelle behind him, too, was nothing but a tool to him.

He was given no rest at the conclusion of the summoning spell. He called upon the true name of the succubus Lynona, and she answered it in violence. Before the purple light of summoning had even vanished, a barbed whip snapped for his throat, and Sin caught it around _Shed'lahk._

"I warned you," spat a vicious, feminine voice, much like a harpy. "Now you will die!"

Despite himself, Sin could not keep from smiling. Light and Shadow, he missed her, and seeing her now before him brought that up in a burst of joy at the reunion.

Straining against her pull on the whip, Sin noticed the change in her stance, the cloven feet bracing, and he was prepared for the sudden lung forward against him, assisted by a flap of her bat-stylized wings. Shadow-laced claws batted against the enchanted cloth of her robes as he blocked with his arm, and a quickly barked spell sent her staggering back with wispy-black smoke dissolving off of her leather corset and bodice.

With a grace suiting her looks but not her nature, Lynona snapped her recovered whip twice, managing to lash his cheek with one. The fierce sting was accented by a warm movement down his cheek, and he knew blood had been drawn. He gripped _Shed'lahk_ in two hands, then spun its top end in a spiral while muttering a new spell. A weave of shadow spilled forth and attempted to snare the succubus.

His friend had grown strong in her time with him. The spell was snipped even as it came, and her whip sought his throat again – a thorny lash this time, rather than a noose. A small nick could kill him as easy as a dagger through the heart. Instead, a blue shield of mana blocked for him, and he smarted her outstretched whip-hand with his staff.

Recovering from the strike, his feet braced, and Sin commanded forward power from deep within him. Lynona recognized it too, as black and green mana seeped from the ground and began to spiral around his body, building up in concentration, and she too moved to the magical side, gathering black magic in her hands in a familiar spell.

Hers came first, as Sin wanted. The Seduction snapped around his mind like a bear-trap, enclosing hard and fast, but rather than seep through the many cracks of a broken mind, Sin withheld it for an aching moment. At the contact between her astral hand and his mind, however, Lynona froze in place, and her face grew pale. Despite her sure fury, she gasped in question, "Sin?"

He did not know what she saw or felt there, but he knew it would not be pretty. A cauterized mind, seared with mind-fire – spell-work normally used to wipe and burnout the minds of enemies. What memories, what actions and characteristics, would be lost in that bastardly scarred mess? That night, Sin had worked like a goblin welder, burning broken pieces together until they made a shoddy whole – patchwork and hideous, but whole.

Sin had come a long way in a very short time. The roughly sealed rifts remained only surface deep, to prevent true damage to his self and allow him to recover the rest naturally. If Lynona pressed hard, she could rip apart the weak sutures. But in the long trials of recent days, he learned to do more than survive. He forced himself to function with his broken mind, on a level separate from straight human thinking.

In the moment of hesitation from her, he bucked off her mind-snare, and like oiled parts he slipped free without problem, where a fierce attempt to cling only accelerated her slipping. His spell finished then, and all at once the succubus was suspended into the air, bound in shadows by hands and feet, with her wings tied together, and a finishing collared around her naked neck – all of it connected by restricting fel-green chains. He figured she'd appreciate the bondage touch of it.

An alternative banishment spell for demons, done in a mix of incantation and instinct magic. He skirted the danger of raw magic now, trusting it to run its course more than he could guide it. To keep the flow, he often personified magic itself as something with a will and intents, even characteristics. Foolish, childish – and mad, he was sure a professional would add – but it kept his expectations and conjurations perfectly aligned.

"I'm afraid I'll need to stop things here," he told Lynona, beginning to walk towards her.

"These bonds are weak," she snapped, and in proof to her words, a tendril of shadow snapped through one of her black cuffs, loosening its hold over her. She could break in out a matter of seconds, he expected.

"I didn't summon you to renew the game of domination," he admitted then. Blue demon eyes narrowed at him in suspicion and wonder. "I summoned you because I need advice."

The succubus spat on his face, and another tendril broke through the bonds of her other hand. A smaller spike snapped through the bottom. He could feel the integrity of his spell-work dissolving quickly. The bound demon hissed, "You get nothing from me!"

A single swipe of his clothed arm took away the spittle, also taking a huge smear of blood from his cheek. He'd forgotten that, and now he felt the sting return with vengeance. He mentioned, "I fear it's time I made the barters for power, Lynona. I may need to call in my contacts."

Lynona froze in place, halting her struggles against his spell. The fae blue eyes were wide now. For only a moment did they keep still, and then all at once she ripped through the last of the binding spell like it was cloth, swiping for his throat with claws of shadow in the same instant.

Faster than even her, Sin jolted back and struck with _Shed'lahk._ He took her in the chest as she fell, and with a heave shifted her course to falling back against the stone of the cave floor. He withheld a wince at the harsh impact against her fragile wings, but then the tip of _Shed'lahk_ was thrust against the center of her bodice, and shadow and flames began to spill from the staff and encircle her with wispy tendrils of mana.

He'd kill her in a single instant. Lynona was pinned and defeated, and she knew it. Looking up at him with her sultry eyes and snarling mouth, she demanded, "Finish it!" He did not. "Finish it, Sin de Rath! Obliterate my body and char my bones! Prove you-!"

The staff dragged up to thrust against her naked throat. He hadn't seen it uncollared since the day he first subdued her to his will. The touch silenced her, and he could see the brutal elation from her. This was the warlock game of control. He was the master here, not her. And he would kill her for this defiance.

How he wished the bond between them remained, to feel what she felt and hear what she thought.

"No," he told her then.

Immaculate, artistocratic eyebrows pinched inward in confusion. "No?" she asked. Though he could not feel it, he could see the sudden surge of rage flood through her. "Weak!" she shrieked, and a hand slapped away the staff from her neck, leaving behind the charred marks of its touch.

Lynona shoved herself back up, attempting to come for his blood again, but he stopped her with a raised knee, and with his weight he carried her back down, landing hard against the stone. Gently, he pressed the tip of _Shed'lahk_ against her throat again. Softly, he repeated, "No."

In the hanging moment, he noticed the escape of a tear from her eye. The snarl did not leave her lips, but she asked in an emotion-choked voice of hate, "What happened to you, Sin? What did they do to your beautiful mind?"

"It will heal."

Thrusting her head up, even against the staff, she hissed, "Will it?!" He sensed it before he felt it, the sudden thrust of a psychic spike for his wounded brain. He could not prevent that wicked needle from sliding deep, deep into the recesses of his being, and it came with an explosion of pain. Blood began to trickle from his nose, though he did not flinch.

Realizing what she'd done, Lynona blinked up at him with a new look of horror. He did not respond to it, asking instead, "Are you quite done, Lynona?"

"S... Sin," she started, but she didn't finish.

"Try it again," he told her. "Try to claim my mind." Obediently, Lynona cast her Seduction again.

Control. It was the cornerstone to everything warlock. If a book were to be written, it would be the very first law. The world liked to think mages who gave themselves over to the shadow were warlocks, but those were nothing more than enthralled trash. Slaves to demonic desires, to the nature of the magic, and eventually they would be chained by the will of a stronger master. Those were not warlocks.

A sorcerer who could not keep control of the magicks he worked with did not deserve the title. Sin had fallen; he had lost everything and even watched his control crumble. He had lost his class and title. From the ashes, he began to recover. The qiraji communication attempted to rewire how his brain worked, bending the steel shell he had formed around it, and in time, the protection had shattered. That was true, but he had begun to recover.

Sin de Rath was not the same as he was. He was a warlock, even one fallen. No part of what was truly him would change from this, but he could not build himself to the same image as he was before in the time he had. Instead, he did what was natural to the species he was not – he adapted like the qiraji.

Lynona's Seduction came again, no less powerful and consuming. He let it close around him, but before it could seize advantage of the newly opened hole from her spike, he ripped away the perceived defense and forced Lynona deeper within him. In that moment, the physical world was lost to him, as the one both mental and spiritual became his reality.

Like trying to light fire underwater, the succubus spell dissolved at the immersion within him. Lynona was given witness to his true self, to everything that he is and was. In this state, she could pursue the time he spent with her in the War of the Shifting Sands, or she could delve to the times he lost his control to the corruptive nature of the shadow after the bond broke his control.

She could watch him lust after Sekara at the qiraji hive, or she could watch him face death at the hands of Miko in northern Silithus. She would know his exact thoughts and feelings for her in the time she raped him under the Seduction, the time after, and now when he summoned her.

Unlike the mortal races, demons were familiar with this psychic world. Thanks to Sekara and the qiraji communication, Sin himself didn't feel so displaced as he showed it to her.

_So, my precious Lynona, what are your thoughts of the man beneath the mask of master? Of the man called Sin de Rath?_

The succubus did not hesitate as long as he thought she might, given the unexpectedness of taking her into his self. Her reply came entirely different than that of the qiraji communication, as she appeared within his mind in a physical shape and said, _"I much prefer this end of you."_

The mental nudge was towards Sin's character, not his memories. The parts of him that were dominant; where he needed each portion of his life under direct and deliberate control, and the self-entitled arrogance to expect it done. It was also the part of him that was the perfectionist, for he could only be master if all was done better under his control. That strive for perfection, in spell work, turn of conversation, in actions, in war... Those were the parts of him born of being a warlock, or perhaps what led him to that path.

In particular, Lynona prompted a memory, and he could feel from her the burning satisfaction and desire at feeling his end of it. Their first encounter and battle for dominance, when she attempted to charm him with her Seduction. His line of thought: how could he fall under control of a demon, when he was to be master of everything? And the sheer arrogance of it turned her spell into nothing more than aged paper, torn through without a thought.

Lynona turned to him now in the astral image of his psyche. What she saw of him, of his presence, he did not know, but he commented through thought, _You're naked._

The purple skinned demoness smiled broadly at that. _"So are you. This isn't the Twisting Nether, where form, shape, and dress is derived of imagination. This is your very soul, Sin de Rath, and an image of mine."_

_Then why the collar around your neck? You do not even have one outside of here._

The succubus touched her throat, where the black band resided. He could feel fondness from her, and a deep sadness. _"Because my soul still belongs to someone else."_

Oh Light and Shadow, he could feel it from her. She was his succubus: his tool, his demon, his servant. He was her master. Paramount of importance were only those facts to her, even at the breaking of their bonds. Though it was his mind they resided in, he could feel echoes of hers: the standing love, and the roiling hurt and confusion that he would not dominate her in the physical world. She would sooner be dominated by him with the broken mind than left apart.

_Wear the collar, Lynona. I am not trying to deny you that,_ he told her. He guided her to a different memory, to the thoughts and feelings of him as he summoned her to the cave. She quivered at the realization he was showing to her. _I want you, Lynona. I won't go on without you, but this time, there will be no domination, no master and slave. Regardless of our relationship, I will have you there as my friend and companion. That is my gift to you._

"_Sin..."_ she started, and new emotion flooded her voice. She was a rather temperamental girl – and at the thought, a flash of indignation told him she heard it. Then she laughed, before stuttering, _"Sin, you- you oaf!"_

_You can see I really haven't changed, my precious Lynona. That arrogant, controlling part of me remains strong, and I will not stand for being alienated from MY succubus any longer. If you won't come back to me as a friend, then I will splatter your body against the walls of this cave and subjugate your will, and perhaps that dainty body, until the only fight you have left is "More, please!"_

Her lips turned up in a wicked smile, and Lynona ran her hands along the sides of her curves enticingly. _"You're tempting me, Sin de Rath. But you must realize that now that you've led me here, I can _ruin_ you from the inside. Demons hold the superior hand in this realm."_

Quick as thought, chains snapped around her hands and legs, and they pulled from all ends, leaving her suspended and helpless. With mirth and confidence, Sin told her,_ You did once, but as you know, I am not wholesomely human inside anymore. The qiraji broke me down, but I learned from it, and I've rebuilt myself stronger._

Sin was glad the fight had turned inward, where Narelle could no longer see. This privacy was needed between the mingled souls of master and servant. Picking up the thought, and now in her position, Lynona purred audibly. _"This... This is what I was hoping to see again, Master."_

A force not at all physical reverberated from her words and through his core. It felt... like a contract, if he needed to put it into definition, as her words sealed her place at his side again. With it, the chains around her arms and legs broke and vanished, yet another appeared, hooking to the collar she wore. Lynona touched it, elation clear within her – the bond was restored, and he could feel what she felt once again.

And, as he soon discovered, she could feel what he did too.

"_So you do have a libido!"_ she declared triumphantly, and she fanned the flames of the area in question. The sudden rush of lust for the naked succubus within his mental vision was entirely unnatural, like the Seduction charm, yet far less foreign, feeling real and natural.

_LYNONA._ The growl that escaped him was far more encompassing than the passing of thought-words. It shook the astral realm they were present in, and Lynona nearly cowered at the overwhelming command to stop. She pouted, _"Later then."_

_The world is in motion, and more lives than ours are in danger. The Beast beneath Shed'Beshal stirs, Azeroth lays in her death throes, and the goddesses themselves have blessed me with their power to continue the fight, even as they lose ground in their own. If ever there was a time to bargain my freedom for power, this is it, Lynona, and I need you with me every step of the way._

_I am not alone any longer, but I can trust no one as completely as I trust you._

He could feel fingers brushing strands of memory and past. It was terribly invasion, a more intimate penetration of self than anything that could happen in the physical world, but since it was she, with his consent, he did not mind. A fierce burn of happiness returned from her at his trust.

"_I see,"_ she commented after her inspection of what exactly had transpired in her absence. _"The Watcher, she is your closest confident, and her only purpose is to kill you. Well, that will not happen on my watch, Master. Nothing but a tool, and a weak fail-safe at that. The qiraji, mindless sheep. The cultists, and this Darnin, more tools. I see this Sekara lacks the "tool" label, Master. Have something to say over the affection I see?"_

It came with the sharp whip of jealousy, but Sin was callus to it. _It is what it is, and I will not stand for issues from you over it, Lynona._

"_She sleeps in your tent, in your bed. You never did that for me, not unless we were freezing to death."_

_Enough, Lynona. I have already removed the domination from you, to give you your chance, and you can feel the difference between my regard for her and you._

"_I want your eyes on me alone, Sin. I want to be your sin. Your dirty, naughty sin."_

By the Shadow, that genuine lust from her. Certainly, the temptress could feel the way it affected him, and she preyed upon that lightly. _"That qiraji hatchling is not worthy of you, Master. I can show you the pleasure you deserve."_

Most damning was that rather than simple demon lust, her words carried the strong ring of love. Mingling souls like this, Sin suspected, deepened the bond in unprecedented ways, and he could feel the exact nature of her feelings for him.

He retreated to arrogance, before the softer sides of him could lock him into a set path. _Master of everything, succubus. You would be my own pleasure, my only treat? That is all I "deserve?"_

Words caught in her throat, and a flood of heat reached her cheeks as she felt his mirth. Before she could shout, he continued over her, _Focus on the moment, Lynona. We're discussing bedmates while half the world burns and the other half drifts to the executioner's block. Before season's end, I might be shackled to the will of a dark god – if that's what it took to save the planet, then I will go willfully. You can feel my need for you, but that does not entitle you, or Sekara, getting my rocks off._

Still naked in image before him, so excessively feminine but not presently flaunting it, Lynona remained in a state of jaw-clenching pension until she finally conceded, _"I want what's best for you, Master, but she is not it. And that's not jealousy; that's just the history of your time with her."_

_Sin de Rath the Mad, I'm called now, but I'm starting to see Light in places previously buried. No use crying over spilled milk, as they say, nor arguing how it might have spilled differently. Now, let's get out of... whatever this is, so I can kiss your lips and stop Narelle from putting a bolt through my heart while I'm distracted._

To further demonstrate the new control he had over the psychic world, Sin ejected the both of them in a violent tempest, one incapable of being fought by any simple being. He wondered if it would be enough to battle the claws of an old god, when it came for him. Perhaps the mastery would better buffer him against the Whispers, at least.

Sin opened his eyes again feeling as if dunked in an icy stream, as of the last thought. Tight tension and sudden goosebumps assailed him as he recalled the Whispers of old gods, that of C'Thun as they traversed the Temple of Ahn'Qiraj, and that of Yogg'Saron as he descended upon the realm of- No, Sin had masked himself then, in identity, appearance, and mind. The claws of Yogg'Saron, the mark for mad death, could not touch his real self.

Shadow-wrapped mind and exclusively closed-bond with his succubus. What a team they had made, when rejoining the heroes to vanquish the Beast of a Thousand Maws. Lynona had wanted to keep the bondage-esque uniform she had been made to wear then, meant to block each of her senses before facing the Beast, to fight solely by his will and command and none of her mind's own. She had been kept safe from Yogg'Saron, but Sin quickly burned the uniform, for the memories it evoked within him.

_Shed'lahk_ fell away from Lynona's throat in the waking moment. Odd, nearly ironic, were the black marks of burned-corruption left behind in the wake, leaving a mark like a new collar around her. A finely manicured hand grasped a handful of his robes near the collar, and her lips quirked as she admonished, "You should know better than to give me permission."

And she yanked him down for a kiss. Sin gladly fell into it, hotly and insistently kissing her back, and he felt her barbed tail wrap around his waist possessively – the barbs faced backward, to keep in place what prey tried escaping, though she was careful not to prick him.

With the restored bond between them, he nearly flinched at Lynona's pain. What awful poison leached and burned at her throat – the Touch of Beshalahk – and her wings were indeed snapped in several places from the rough handling beforehand. Devotion carried her despite the calamities, and Sin knew – just _knew_ – golden love blocked it all from her mind. Light, he had no words for this.

A deliberate, sarcastic sigh reached them from the cave entrance. "Just like last time."

Sin kindly freed one hand to offer a rude gesture without looking, but a dirt-stained, purple-skinned hand took his and guided it towards where she thought his fingers better used. Sin caught one of her plush lips between his and nipped it with his teeth before breaking the kiss.

"None of that now," he breathed, transfixed by the sparkling, smoldering expression on her face as she beamed back at him. The thought reached him that if he allowed himself to give into her advances, he might not ever leave his tent again – world be damned. Blue eyes flickered downward suggestively, before returning directly to his own, and she agreed, "And you wouldn't complain once."

"Succubus," he accused, and she took it as a compliment.

The next few moments passed quickly, as Sin summoned Lynona a new body, and they left, with Narelle following like a hunting hawk, to return to the camp. Though dark had fallen some time ago, few had already retired for bed, and he was greeted by many curious qiraji and concerned bandits.

It was a new world that Sin de Rath lived in, Lynona would see. One of monsters and men, of friends and foes. Gods and mortals. And he was the theatrical show at the center of it all.

The time came when he broke free of the crowds and departed for his tent, but he stopped at the persistence of Narelle. "The night is not over," she said by explanation.

"For you it is," he dismissed. "You have my word already; if anything noteworthy happens, you'll be the first to know, Lady Blackmoon, but for now, I am going to catch up with one of my dearest, oldest friends, and then retire before another grueling day of marching in this hellish snow. I suggest you do the same, warden. You look tired."

"Sin-"

"I know my promise, Lady Blackmoon," was the curt rejection. "But until we start sharing baths and sharing tents, you do not need to bear witness to every single portion of my life."

"Fine." The reply carried every trace of her singular determination.

Sin paused, nearly mouth agape. Lynona had a hot flash of jealousy and dissent. "Well... too bad," he returned lamely.

With an iron-clad finger and bladed nail, Narelle pointed at the succubus. "She is of the Twisting Nether, the realm of your Watch, Sin de Rath. She will have words over the state and conditions of it, along with perhaps a warning. Does that not constitute information I should be made fully aware of?"

"Probably. I'll let you know in the morning. Good night, Narelle."

Sin had nearly forgotten how present and consuming the bond shared with his demons could be, as he felt Lynona's satisfaction at the dismissal. He turned from the warden and opened the flap for his tent, letting his succubus in before following. Once the flap closed behind him, Sin threw up a magical veil as an afterthought, to block sound or spell from penetrating inside.

Lynona had a little grin for him as she stared. Light and Shadow, he really did not have a plan here. Menacing _Shed'lahk_ remained clenched in his fist, always present, and he bought himself time by beginning the process of sealing and locking it in wards and shields, to free him from the constant burden of carrying it.

His attention remained captivated by Lynona's blue eyes as he worked, not able to look away. When the final barrier formed around the key, Lynona took his dark skinned hand in her own, and she pulled him to her. All arguments dispelled when their lips came in contact again.

Sin did not feel mad. Sometimes he did, but usually he did not. He must have been though, for here was a man trusted to keep safe one of the darkest entities in the universe, yet he threw himself into work with treacherous cultists-turned-bandits and monsters spawned by dark gods and given feminine shape. What sane man kissed a demon, even one as deceptively gorgeous as a succubus?

She had goat legs up to her knees, for Light's sake, complete with cloven feet and massive, leathery wings sprouting from her back like a bat – not to mention the curved horns at her forehead. Even the inside of her mouth, as he explored it with his tongue, contained a set of unnatural fangs, while her own returning tongue stretched much further than a tongue really ought, he noticed with a tingle to his spine.

He deepened the kiss, tilting her back with an arm around her slender waist and the other supporting her back between the wings. He found he couldn't stop this, not with the sweet taste of her mouth and the sweet scent he wasn't sure was a perfume. It was intoxicating, fueled further by feeling both his mind's desires and her own bright flames of lust, love, and want. He could feel her hands grabbing at his robes, loosening them, and his heart lurched into a frantic beat, not knowing if he should stop them or rip that flimsy corset from her frame.

The tent flap opened, interrupting them. Sin felt ready to kill Narelle, and his anger at the intrusion was matched by Lynona's. Turning with his face already contorting to shout, Sin's words died a cold death when he saw it was not Narelle Blackmoon who had entered. It was Sekara.

"Sin?" the qiraji Battleguard said.

Lynona's disdain persisted though his wilted. Clearly, Sekara recognized the succubus, and she recalled the reason for the severing between he and his demon. Sekara proved especially shy now, rubbing her red arms together and hardly past the threshold of the tent.

Since they had left the silithid hive in Sholazar, Sekara had changed her uniform once again, this time returning her veil. She now wore it, a flimsy pink vest without ties, and the harem pants. Sin suspected she was striving for the human ideals for beauty, as the inhuman parts of her remained covered, while the feminine showed in new light, like the suggest valley of her breasts, which were held precariously hidden beneath the sides of the vest.

Sin had to wonder again at the programming C'Thun had done for the Battleguards. The sisterhood mentality, the needlessly feminine shape, and their peculiar garb, like harem girls – yet the Battleguards were the elite defenders and assassins of the aqir. For what purpose had the bizarre mind of the old god shaped them?

"Come in, Sekara," he invited, and Lynona crossed her arms before her with a huff. To the succubus, he admitted, "It's for the best."

"Liar."

Sin took Lynona under an arm and guided her back towards the bed. She remained displeased, but her feet moved. Once seated with her on the cot, he leaned towards her pointed ear and whispered, "With you, I won't be able to help myself, Sa'eedrin Tardik Balish'nak Lae'Parnona... "Distraction" doesn't begin to describe what would happen."

The full saying of her name, with each inflection, flick of tongue, and harsh clipping of the Demonic syllables, done exact as she had been Named, imposed a tremor through the succubus. Much like him taking her into his soul, it was the most intimate and personal thing to her, and its saying demonstrated his great power over her. A demon was nothing more than its Name.

Sin noticed through his peripheral the open attention Sekara was giving _Shed'lahk,_ but his focus was on Lynona.

"What did I say," she breathed back, voice tight, "about saying my Name, Sin de Rath?"

"That was no flippant saying, Lae'Parnona. I'm serious as a cone-tail rattler in a rainstorm."

"Idiot," Lynona laughed. The moment did not last long, as she followed it with a sigh. "The hells are in an uproar presently, you know. The Legion knows as well as you the state of this world. It seems as if every being with a lick of power in the Twisting Nether is clamoring at the opportunity."

Her horned head fell to his shoulder, and Sin kept his arm around her, turning his eyes towards Sekara. "That is what I feared. Grandmother Shuzlo has mobilized her family for damage control, but there's little they can do outside the Gardens."

"Are you afraid, Master? I see you've taken up the Bane-Heart."

"I'd be a fool not to be, but I'm not petrified. Two goddesses have given me power untold, and _Shed'lahk's_ power is mine to use. I just don't know if it will be enough. Titans have fallen to old gods before, when not unified, and I don't believe I match their power. I am considering using Demon Soul."

"The spell?" Lynona lifted her head, turning intent. "Do so, Master. I will gladly-"

"With Claxius," he finished, and the words died in her mouth. "Or someone of equivalent power, like the Emperor of the Abyssal Depths or Moxius. The Sand Prince of Storms would grant me his boon, if I would but promise my body to the works of ordering the Elemental Plane in his name. Then there is the bargain of Little-Tooth, which I have inherited, or worst yet, to contract a prisoner of the Gardens."

"Each is worse than the last!" Lynona cried out, and her hand tightened its hold over the sleeve of his robe. "Would you add Therezane to that list, whom would grant you the strength of the earth in exchange for a century of torment and death at her hands?

"If it would grant me victory, I may," he replied quietly.

"No, Sin. There are other ways."

"So I hope, my precious Lynona, and I'd like you to help me find them."

A tense silence fell between them, and Sin called the looming Sekara to them. Not even that could break the strong currents of urgent fear within Lynona. As Sekara knelt on the cot, facing Sin, the succubus mentioned, "To be considering these options... there is more you are not saying. Master, Sin, you are delving the world of beyond? You would touch Death for this power?"

The guilt and shame she felt within him answered before he could, and Lynona shook her head in a desperate fit. Throwing herself against his chest and into his lap, Lynona began to cry. There was no sobbing, but he saw the tears and felt the sorrow, while she mumbled, "Master, what _happened_ while I was away? Shadows, it's too _much!"_

Sin stroked her full, black hair, whispering empty comforts.

"You aren't alone, Master," she argued. It was something Sin had already considered, knowing the combined strength needed to remove C'Thun and Yogg'Saron. He began to open his mouth, only to be spoken over:

"No, Sin is not." It came from beside him, in the rasp of the qiraji verbal communication. Sekara agreed with Lynona – it was the first time Sin had seen her take the initiative in an interaction that was not with him or another qiraji. He looked to her, into the bright teal eyes – as unnatural as Lynona's own blue – and it was as if she read his mind, for she insisted, "The All-Mind shall not be broken. The sisters are one, for Sin."

Lynona's head lifted from his robes, and she wiped the streaks of tears with her wrist. She said, "I did not check when we were within your soul, Master, but... more than Sekara, did you make a _harem_ of the qiraji?"

"No," Sin choked out at the same time Sekara answered, "Yes."

They looked at each other, Sin's eyes wide and Sekara's calm. "I don't think you understand what exactly the word "harem" means, Sekara."

With her two scythe-bladed arms, Sekara gestured to him and herself. "Family." The arm towards him lowered. "And Fire."

Dry, Lynona commented, "I think she has it down pretty well."

There was, perhaps, no moment as appropriate as this to risk his mind in the formation of the qiraji bond to wrestle a straight answer out of Sekara, but since he still had not finished a safe method to form the bond between them, he abstained.

Light and Shadow, that song of the loa that beat in his heart and his loins grew louder and louder at each suggestion. Lynona's raised eyebrow showed she could feel it too.

Cutting off his worries, Sin argued, "Hardly so. Ressact, for example, would sooner avoid me, after all the mouth-work she performed on my behalf- Speaking, Lynona. She spoke for me."

"Keep talking, mister. This hole is only getting deeper," the succubus threatened.

"Ressact is traditional," Sekara explained. "She cannot into self-thought much. She waits on Sin de Rath's command."

Turning pensive, Sin pursued, "And Sekara is different?"

"Sekara is queen. The All-Mind forms to my will, which is Sin de Rath's will, for Sekara is your servant."

Servant. The word was simple, but her meaning encompassed far more. Sekara was his total servant, he recalled. Total loyalty, total obedience, total willfulness for everything he wanted. He placed extra emphasis on the reminder, to clue in Lynona. The succubus narrowed her eyes, and she returned thoughts mentioning the same from her – plus one-hundred percent, all-natural succubus sass.

Biting back a laugh, Sin asked, "Queen?" and looked into Sekara's eyes, hoping it would help her glean his intent by the question. Qiraji queens, he remembered, were grotesque, silithid-bodied egg-layers oozing slime and unmentionables from more orifices than he wanted to recall.

She managed. "Sekara is no mother. Yet."

"Yet," Sin repeated.

"Yet," Sekara confirmed.

Now that was a buzz kill. "But you will be? Is that true for... any Battleguard?"

Attention-seeking Lynona began to fidget at his side, so Sin scooped her in his arms and set her in his lap, then crossed his arms over her stomach. She purred like a cat, content for the moment.

"Sekara does not know. Fathers and mothers speak, while sisters and brothers listen. I speak, but I am no mother. This is not how it works."

Sin felt like he had the gist of her explanation. "Speak" meant free thought. Battleguards could think on their own, he knew that from Sekara when he still called her Bugsy, but they could not think independently from the All-Mind. They were designed to follow orders, to always have a master.

He desperately wanted to bond with her mind again, to get the history and explanation of the qiraji as she knew it rather than struggled to say it. "So how is it supposed to work?"

The unblinking teal eyes were unyielding. "Sekara should be mother. Perhaps Sekara will be mother. Sekara does not know, but I do not care. Sekara is loyal to Sin de Rath, so Sekara and all sisters will follow Sin de Rath. Let's make Fire."

The ending part was thrown on so casually, Sin almost missed the implications. He didn't, of course, thanks to the loa beat that still pulsed stronger and stronger within him, driving his thoughts linearly towards one end – and perhaps that is what Sekara had noticed from him, maybe even taking influence from it.

As Lynona began squirming over his lap, he realized the loa song wasn't the only stirring in his loins. The succubus mentioned haughtily, "If any "fire making" is going on here, it's going to be with me. Shadows, Master, what _is_ that?"

"Har'koa's Blessing," he explained, frustrated. Frustrated for sure! "I knew the loa were about primal forces, but Light, shouldn't there be more to it than _this?"_

An amused, formal air came to Lynona, as her squirming became a very deliberate grinding. "Sin, my Master, the gods have blessed you with a great gift. It would not be well to squander it through inaction."

The ministrations sent an abrupt surge of blood and emotion, so much that when his hands came to her hips and stopped her, Lynona obeyed without complaint. "I think," he gasped tersely, "that one body would not be enough to quell this."

With another breath, he concluded, "There is a reason troll orgies are commonplace and the average troll has more wives than I have fingers, and now we know why."

Lynona turned in place to straddle him, her legs stretching out on either side and hands on his shoulders. Her fingers gripped his robes in fistfuls, but her wide, mischievous grin was all he saw. She purred, "I want to see _that_ faced with the Mistress of Pleasure on the sayaad planet. For science."

"Well, between the qiraji harem and the loa song, we now know that I'd be the happiest guy alive if only the world weren't on the verge of total damnation and myself set on course for saving it."

With a shove, Lynona had Sin flat on his back and leaned herself low over him, keeping her mischievous face inches from his. "Lord de'Rath," she addressed. Her breath touched his face, and his lips turned up to catch hers. When exactly did he fall into this lustful trap?

"Lynona," a struggling voice attempted. Sin noticed the drop of Lynona's eyebrows as Sekara addressed her, and she turned a narrow-eyed look the qiraji's way. "Can you teach Sekara to spread Fire?"

There was not a shred of reluctance from her. "Succubi don't share, little qiraji."

"Untrue," Sin argued, not without mirth against her flash of indignation. He recalled the demonic harems they had burst into, over the course of their travels together.

Turning that dangerous look his way, she explained, "Power-whoring leaches do. Shivarra do too, if they are the sole matron of a harem and the master is worthwhile. I am neither, so pluck that little teasing thought from your mind, Sin de Rath, and realize there is nothing in this universe or mine more jealous and scornful than a succubus in love."

She flaunted both her notion of love and jealousy as if they were badges of honor. Sin laughed, realizing there was nothing new there. "Light, I missed you, Lynona."

Rather than returning joy, there was a lance of pain within her, and her eyes seemed to dim in their regard. "Don't slip up again, Sin. Please. I'll beg if I have to; on my hands and knees before you, and I'll beg with my mouth, and with my tongue."

She flicked the serpentine organ over her lips suggestively, but despite her joke, he knew her request was sincere. Their bond had broken. Though they repaired it, there would always be scars over the wound. "I'm trying." It was the best he could offer her, and she felt that, nodding once.

"Now, I had several plans to get you inside me before the night is through," Lynona continued, seemingly oblivious to the rush of heat to his cheeks, "but the little tart staring at us is making me uncomfortable. Can we send her out?"

"No, but you can move over and make room for her while I blow out the candles and ready for bed."

"Master!" Lynona whined.

XxX

The butt of _Shed'lahk_ touched the ground, sending the telling thrum of power through the land beneath them, with its head still smoking and smoldering. Narelle eased tension off her bow, letting the poisoned arrow aim downward. Beside them, Darin tossed aside the bubbling remains of his hooked dagger, and Handon grunted at the blood splashed over his bones.

"Acidic blood," Sin mentioned quietly. "Bodies that combust upon defeat. Shape-shifting. Skin spelled for visual distortion. Psychically aggressive and protected. Power more dark and corrupted than the Shadow. That is what we face from even the lowest of the enemy. The highers amplify the danger of each of those."

"I prefer the qiraji to these." The gruffness of the voice was telling for Jern, who walked behind them. "Barely."

"The spawn of C'Thun or the spawn of another old god," Darnin put into comparison. With a gesture towards the blood-splattered Sekara, he mentioned, "It seems as though the qiraji were tailored to fight them, or perhaps with them."

All noticed how the acid blood of the enemy did no harm to the skin of the Battleguard. Even Handon, with bones protected by dark magics, felt the leaching of the blood against the spell work of his body.

"With the old gods, one can never know," Sin mentioned. "We are close though. Past that mountain is an icy canyon, the end of which is the forest we seek."

"Lo, Specter," Darnin called, now kneeling beside the corpse of one of the minions they had slayed. Sin noticed a dark dagger in his hand, and the man was coating its blade in the blood of the fiend. "What do you make of this blade? The blood is sliding right off, with no mar."

Sin approached. "I don't trust the glow of it. Opals and emeralds don't give light." He accepted the blade cautiously. The piece appeared hand-crafted, smoothed and shaped like a baker does dough, with the bladed end blotchy as if done by an inexperienced palm rather than a forge. It was metal, clearly, though colored like pitch and speckled without pattern with the two types of stones, uncut and unshaped.

Resting _Shed'lahk_ over his lap, he brought his right hand over the knife and muttered an incantation. Sin dragged the hand aside, and with it, a latticework of spells blossomed in the air between the hand and dagger, spread as if something connected the two.

Sin read the spell work woven into the blade with a curious eye. It was certainly alien, carrying none of the patterns of mortal spell-weaving, but the design lacked alien complexity. He said, "Now that is interesting... How do you feel about vampires, Darnin?"

"Feasting on blood for power? It sounds useful in war."

"That it does," Sin remarked, still sounding fascinated. "But this is no simple sangromancy... Yes, this area here is the secret, but..."

For the first time, Sin felt it. Astral, psychic tendrils as transparent and intangible as ghosts approached his mind, and like fingers they wrapped around it without a real, detectible touch. Then one, oh so delicately and innocently, gently probed itself inward, into his mind, with a touch too light for the protective walls to keep away. Light and Shadow, the psychic touch was a work of mastery unseen by mortal hands. No one could perform a feat so skillfully yet so delicately, nigh impossible to detect.

_Darnin wants this dagger. He will try to take it, kill me in my sleep if he has too._

The thought felt so naturally bidden, so seamless with his normal patterns of thought. If it had not been for Sekara and the qiraji bond, he would never have noticed any of this. The Whispers of the Old Gods – the qiraji bond had clued him into its workings, and he could _feel_ it!

"Master?" Lynona questioned, not understanding what she was reading from him.

Even _Shed'lahk_ in his lap began to burn along their contact, also sensing the intrusion, and it had a disturbing satisfaction at its keeper's awareness. Sin could nearly feel its thoughts: if _Shed'lahk_ would not control him, no one would.

"Nothonium," he announced, unbidden. This metal alloy carried within it the essence of the old god, and from it, he knew its name – and its substance. "Made from the blood of a dark god, like Yogg'Saron's, yes."

"Like saronite?" Lynona pressed, a touch of panic entering her voice. "Do away with it, Master. Quickly."

"No, even better, I will study it," Sin declared triumphantly. "That fool, it's given me a key to its destruction... Light and Shadow, only a madman would try this against an old god."

"I don't understand," Narelle put in, sounding as though a demand, while Lynona exclaimed, "Madman indeed! Hold onto it for long, and you won't _want_ to use it against it any longer. Master, you know better!"

"No, no. You don't understand," he returned, only for Narelle to interject coolly, "Exactly."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Sekara, you wonderful darling, you've shown me the way to old god Whispers. They won't work on me any longer, and certainly not with _Shed'lahk's_ burning hate. Most importantly, the blood pact within the blade – the blood it feeds upon grants the old god's strength to the wielder, which is a clue into its power. Ghat'Nothos has handed me its blood and power to experiment upon without danger. Does no one realize what that means?"

"By the goddess, you are mad," Narelle said, but she was nodding with Lynona.

"Warden, they teach you to never leave behind blood for demons to recover, do they not?" She nodded, the cogs clearly whirling within her mind. "And you know why, but for the rest of you: it grants a new weakness, capable of being exploited by the... right hand. Troll voodoo is a magic solely built around the concept, firing hexes and jinxes to the victim with but a drop of blood or a hair – no matter the distance, no matter the protection, you cannot escape your own blood."

"So you want to hex an old god?" Jern's question was dry, clearly unimpressed. "Can't it just trace the spell back to you and obliterate you in the same method?"

"Oh, it will do far worse than that," Sin agreed, and he wrapped the blade of the dagger in a cloth sheath before throwing it into his pack. "But I am no troll. I'm going to find ways to detect, protect from, and extinguish its exact brand of magic. I can trace it through its blood, to know its exact position and movements, and when the time is right, I can throw against it a multitude of weakeners and curses."

He could feel Lynona's worry. She knew he mastered the ways of Destruction, that his codex boosted only that field of warlock spell-weaving. For the other schools, of Affliction and Demonology, he was an arduous student, but he lacked real power in either field. His curses remained mediocre.

But she was forgetting that his mother trained him in ways not restricted to what he learned from textbooks and specialists. Magic was an open tool; he had been given the tools to create spells as he wished, not just those written in his spell book. That was the importance of theory. Sin was a sorcerer first.

"There is nothing, friends, more dangerous than a warlock given time to prepare," Sin de Rath announced, standing again and adjusting his enchantedly light pack. He had a grin that belied his excitement. Miko knew the truth of his statement; Narelle and the Watchers did too. "This old god will learn the truth of that soon enough. Now, tend your wounds if you have them, and let's push forward."

Those involved in the brief skirmish looked to each other. Handon used snow to scrub off the last of the blood from his bones, and then they began to move forward again.

XxX

"You move well, demon."

Lynona turned, whip coiled in her hands, but she saw no one there. Realizing, she exhaled and made out the shape melded into the shadows. Deciding Sin would not mind her fraternizing, she returned, "A compliment, from a warden. Lesser invisibility is nothing but a trick to you, no?"

Turning her nearly invisible head towards the direction of Sin's tent, Narelle Blackmoon said, "Sentinel, actually, but on a warden's mission. Your shroud is a neater trick than the others I've encountered, and you see me without hesitation. A bodyguard appropriate for Sin de Rath."

"Not to be curt, but you do realize you are my enemy, don't you?"

The night elf smiled, and silver eyes flicked back to her. "For my purpose? Yes, and you are mine in turn, for race alone and then the obstacle you present to my duties. But I have swallowed much of my opinions and pride in recent weeks, and I compromise justice for right all to often."

"I have seen who you are, Narelle Blackmoon, and I have seen what my master has not. You seek to use me, for a link into my master's mind. You have not changed in the slightest. How many bandits have you killed from the shadows without his knowledge?"

A soft laughter from the elf sent Lynona's blood boiling, but she did not lash out. "I see our trust is mutual, and I hear the lash of jealousy in your voice. To your question, see where I am now, and what I watch. I have killed one man. On the first night since Sin revealed the truth of the old god, he came carrying a dagger for the tent your master slept in, and I removed his threat without issue."

"You want me to believe you're his protector?" Lynona said sarcastically. "Shall I simper at your help?"

"You believe I am unchanged since my journey with Sin has begun, but you are mistaken. Tell me, if you can see so, what do you believe my purpose and goal is? What would I have done, should my idea of "right" be realized?"

Lynona drawled, "Each and every one here dead."

Another laugh, but not mocking. "I will not argue that would be simplest, but what does that do against the threat of this old god? We Watchers know better than anyone how outclassed we are against one of their ilk. The entire force of Sentinels, druids, and dragons was not enough to overcome the qiraji in the Qiraji War, one thousand years ago, and that was while C'Thun still slept. The options for this world are very slim, and I cannot deny Sin is one of them."

"You don't look to your goddess Elune?"

An odd chord was struck in the night elf. Her head flickered entirely into view, and Lynona could see the raw sadness on Narelle's face. Rather than look up, to the moon, her gaze turned downward, and her quiet voice became a whisper, "You cannot feel it? Elune battles the old god as we speak."

Lynona blinked, and she looked upward herself. The moon showed brightly, a radiant orb in the brilliantly lit sky of Ghost Lights. Stared though she did, she felt and saw nothing unusual. Remembering the expression, she asked, "Does that not inspire hope, that the great goddess fights with us?"

"Perhaps it would, child, if she was making progress. Elune is losing her battle."

Once again, surprise overtook the succubus, and she stared at the warden again. "But her host..." Her host was dead, Lynona recalled sharply. Sin's encounter with the goddesses had told him that.

Narelle shook her head. "I am no priestess, able to read the signs of the goddess, but even I can feel the waning strength of the moon. I assume her efforts are why the old god has not yet finished ordering this world in its image. Be grateful for the time she has bought us, and mourn for the day she falls."

Despite herself, Lynona stepped closer to the lone Watcher, and she asked with a compassionate voice, "Are you alright?"

"All things in this world will pass. If Elune dies, then so does the light within my people, but there are worse horrors lurking in the shadows of the present. I have born witness to Sin's charge, that he calls _Beshalahk_, and so my duty carries me forward through even the worst atrocities."

Lynona chewed her lip in thought for a long moment, during which her lesser invisibility dropped. She said finally, "I love my master more than I can explain. I won't see him hurt, enslaved, or killed, by any hand. I won't see him fall or be torn from me again. You threaten that, Watcher. Sin thinks he can trust you, but I know better."

"He trusts me to do my job," Narelle clarified. Opening her warden's cloak and revealing a body more scandalously dressed than Lynona was, Narelle gestured to a dagger with a clear coating of poison. Lynona felt her throat tightening at the suggestion. "He says he'll treat me as someone closer and more intimate than a soulmate-" A bitter laugh. "-but we both know the truth of that. You know how much he keeps from me, and there is little else I can do but Watch and wait for the moment my hand is called to action."

"My master is kind, you know. Sometimes he hesitates on hard decisions, wondering if there might be better ways, and he trusts those he has little reason to, even if he keeps them in proportionate suspicion. I would work with you, if I didn't feel as if you would exploit each word against him."

"Trust me for what you think you can. I recognize that Sin is needed for the success of the world; the goddesses would not have returned him if he wasn't. If he falls completely, my hand will not hesitate, but I would rather he not reach that point. I know of no one else with even a chance of success, but I do not know if I can trust him. He is mad."

"He's stranger, certainly, but not mad," Lynona admitted. "I will tell you that you can trust him. His interactions with you are sincere."

"I can trust him for how long? He's lost control before," Narelle pressed. Lynona remained silent. "That is why I sought you today. You can see his mind, so you will know. More important than demon or Watcher, we can work together to protect Sin de Rath. Killing is not the only art form that wardens learn. Our priority is to detain, to bring our marks back for trial."

As Lynona still mulled it over, they noticed a slender figure hovering towards Sin's tent. Lynona scowled. "Say, you think you can put a poisoned bolt through that tart's back without my Master noticing?"

Revealing her bow from beneath her cloak, Narelle mentioned, "I think I can manage that. You will have to sooth his fury when he discovers Sekara missing though."

Lynona laughed, shaking her head. "Another day, burn him. Alright, I will try to trust you, Narelle Blackmoon. For now, know that his mind is a Shadow-stricken mess – no surprise for a male, really – but he remains himself, and he's getting better each day. Our present issue is that he's been blessed and cursed with so much power, but it won't be enough for the old god, and certainly not if Elune herself is struggling with its power. He is seeking the safest bargain he can make among a host of unspeakable horrors, to be given the edge he needs to win. We need to stop him from making any."

Narelle slowly smiled at the revelation. This was information she could use, Lynona knew. "He won't punish you for acting behind his back?"

"It was his choice to demand my return as a friend rather than a servant. I will use that freedom for his sake." Lynona then brought her hands to her breasts and adjusted them within the corset, giving them extra emphasis and even more impressive cleavage – nearly bursting free from the confines now. "And if he has any complaint, a woman has ways of reeling her man in."

The elf laughed again, eyes sparkling in the night. "Yes. You, I can work with."

Tomorrow they would be entering that forest. Lynona certainly hoped her master knew what he was doing. Shadows, she hoped she did too.

XxX

These woods were cursed. Anyone with a morsel of brain power would recognize that. Even on just the threshold, Sin could feel its oppression and hostility, mixed with dark magics and curses unspoken. Narelle said nothing, but her grim expression for the woods agreed to much the same.

"Listen up!" Sin shouted, for each person behind him to hear. "If any of you wander from me, you will die. If any of you stare at something that looks back, you will die. If you listen to a voice that isn't mine from up front, you will die. This forest is not here to provide you song and tranquility; it is here to kill you in the most gruesome manner possible, and I am the only option any of you have if you want to stay alive in there."

In a low voice, Narelle beside him questioned, "What do you know of nature magic?"

"Nothing, but I know plenty about curses," Sin admitted gladly. "More importantly, it's time to rely on Freya's power. Lo!"

_Shed'lahk_ was raised, and in an angry fit of smoke and flame, it was made to channel the powerful energy of the forest. From the tip sprang forth a green light, shining with all the authority of the nature goddess, and Sin could feel the oppression shrink back, meek before this authority.

He took the first step, marking the beginning of their travels in Crystalsong Forest.

XxX

By the second day of walking the forest, Sin began to make odd parallels between it and the Gardens within the Twisting Nether. Clearly, this was no woods to be traveled by mortals. It was a Garden of Gods, hostile and uncaring as the sea to those unworthy. Of course, Sin knew that he was worthy. With the dark might of _Shed'lahk_ in his right hand and the authority of nature in his left, the forest bowed to his steps.

They had done well for the first day. Only two had been claimed by the forest. The first had stepped out for a piss, to not return, while the other had been enthralled by a Will o' the Wisp. After he scolded the forest, the subtle threats stopped coming for them in the night.

Still, he felt a certain fondness for both the power and presence of the forest. It was dominated by hostility, backed by untamed arcane, and each tree he could almost picture marked the prison of the monsters within the Gardens. He began to look for one worthy of _Beshalahk_.

"How can you be so confident?" Narelle asked him one day. "The entire forest is like a choking miasma."

He had replied, "I hadn't realized such places existed on Azeroth. The forest isn't cruel, Narelle... it's merely powerful. Even benevolent gods won't protect mortals upon the realms they live, within their private sanctums where the air is so thick with power that even the strongest man cannot breath. Can you not see it, Narelle? Can you not feel it?"

"You are mad, Sin de Rath."

A rich chuckle. "I am home."

On the fourth day, Sin realized the secret behind the woods. He hesitated on making the truth known, but the notion fascinated him. He wished to study it and the effects further if they hadn't been barreling forward each day in their march. The distant corruption of the cult had begun roiling, stirred by something, and he knew they needed to hurry to quell it. The arcane-stricken half of the forest could not be touched by Freya's power.

Some time during the resulting conflux that had ripped this forest apart and unleashed so much free-form mana, an Other had been summoned into this world. Sin knew it had to be so, though there was no body or form to recognize it in. Others could not manifest in bodies like demons. They came as forces, as madness, and though Sin had never encountered one (not even Little-Tooth), he recognized all the signs.

They were not dealing with the malevolent, embodied will of Crystalsong Forest. They trespassed the inescapable domain of an Other, which enforced its incomprehensible will through the mana of the forest.

Neat.

True to his promises, he told Narelle once he was certain of it, though not even the warden had heard of Others outside kal'dorei mythos. Sin answered her questions as best he could, though not even he was entirely certain of what the Others were or their purpose.

"So then do you believe this Other is responsible for the destruction of the cult?" Narelle asked him on the fifth day in the forest.

The fayest moment had been realizing the abrupt disappearance of the cult, still four days from their position. That too Sin had clued Narelle on. For whatever reason, Narelle's outward hostility had dropped in recent days, making their interactions far more comfortable – stranger still was the lack of jealousy from Lynona as he approached Narelle. Using the bond as a guide, he knew something had happened between his succubus and the Watcher.

Sin shook his head. "No, though I do not doubt it tried. There are other forces in motion here. I could feel them as we moved, as the forest... rejoiced, is the word I'd say. The Other's efforts towards them were repeatedly thwarted, though I cannot say why. You know my suspicions though, do you not, elf?"

"A forest that rejoices at occupants and cannot harm them?" If she hadn't been Narelle, she would snort in derision at the question. "An elven army, it must be. The question remains on its type. You said the cult had been dismantled at night, so we can hope it is Lady Whisperwind and the Sentinels."

"If it is, will you leave us for them?"

Narelle's silver eyes remained fixed on the forest around them as she hesitated in answering. Eventually, she gave a small shake of her head. "It is my hope that you would work together... but I have obligations to you, Sin de Rath, and you take priority to my people. Do not consider it any fondness that I choose you."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Lady Blackmoon," he returned, and he smiled. "What is the word on the disparate degenerates that follow us?"

A cool, collected voice said behind them, "Us disparate degenerates wish to remain in your loops of command and information, Specter. That is the word on us."

Sin smiled at Darnin's reprimand. With a shrug as he still walked, he said, "Narelle's prettier. Can't help you there."

From his right side, there was finally that flash of indignation, and Sin winked at Lynona, to her ire. He continued for the bandit leader: "It is not negligence that I have excluded you, Darnin, Jern. My machinations that do not pertain to our efforts do not need common sharing for any but my right and left hands. Should your curiosities beseech you, then I suppose you can know that this forest is guided by a will too alien to be labeled malevolent, and it implores its will through the forest itself."

"And knowing we are beholden to and resisting an entity is not information that is needed? Five of us have been claimed by this forest."

"I say not, for there is no resistance for those under my explicit protection. You are a clever man, Storm, but there are no preparations or actions you can take against this foe beside those I have already recommended to you. The killing won't continue until we meet more minions, which mind has been delayed further by the night's assault and I have kept you aware of, no?"

The lean, veiled man persisted. "You can use me, Specter. Have I not made my loyalties and ability clear?"

"I can suspect you too," Sin commented. A gold-leafed tree began to reach with its branches, and a touch of the nature-infused _Shed'lahk_ petrified it into passivity again. The uplifting roots returned to the soil. "Should this be an army, I just might issue a task for you men, to keep us functioning like a well-oiled machine, but my friend, this is not an army. It is a Sin de Rath and his widely accessible arsenal, and I want each of my resources kept in careful reserve until its exact calling, which is to say my exact command."

"A wise man might mention that your resources are very numerous and yourself quite singular – a master with only a human mind, it might be said."

Sin grinned, even as he raised his staff to move the blockade of saplings and fortifying ancients barring their way. "Then that man would be questioning my ability to micromanage, in which case he'd prove himself not so wise. Think not of personal wants, Storm of the South, instead of what you know."

Darnin smoldered. "Your plotting carried us from the desert in a spectacular manner, Specter, even ensuring that the qiraji renegades remained halted by the Watchers, but it was not performed flawlessly."

"Wasn't it?" Sin mumbled to himself, still grinning. There was a beauty to its execution, even if the pieces that fell favorably were not always in his control. "See, my friend, the greater the responsibility that is entrusted to those with me, the greater the loss if that part is removed. Miko was given no value, and so nothing of value was lost."

"Is that then how you see each of us?"

It was Jern's deep rumble that answered, "Do not fall into pettiness, Darnin. He has demonstrated the full desire to use his "resources," not waste or sacrifice them. Do not forget for what and who he fought for in the war."

"And do not forget his actions in that war, nor how he earned his name," Darnin returned shrewdly.

"And do not forget who volunteered and insisted he follow me the entire way," Sin added. "Now, to be clear, I mean that I am ready to continue moving if the Thief of Nights takes you or Jern or even Sekara without notice, because this is war and each man knows that people will die when the fighting begins in earnest, but that does not mean that I will assign Miss Blackmoon to be that thief because one of you is proving less useful or daresay an obstacle to my authority."

"I only mean to be aware, Specter."

"And I am trying, but you are not my student to learn all that I can share. There are horrors outside the understanding of even the Twilight's Hammer – as it should be, mind – but until one is crossed and needs understanding to triumph, I do not need to share their details with everyone with me."

"...So be it."

And their dysfunctional family continued on its merry way.

XxX

"Archers in the trees!" Narelle shouted, nocking an arrow for her bow even as she vanished from sight.

The Storm of the South whistled, and most of the bandits immediately jumped behind trees, hiding themselves from easy targets, while Lynona uncoiled her whip and stood before Sin, her teal eyes flashing. "Five... six... I count ten of them!"

Sin remained calm, but his spells were coming quick. Freya's power was used to calm the nearby trees, stilling the ones that might slay the bandits whom have forgetfully used them for hiding. But for those holding these archers, he began whispering commands. To Sin's surprise, the trees resisted his orders, and he realized that these intruders were elves – rangers.

It was then Sin also realized the disdain of the gods for the proud, ambitious elves. With their great longevity and power, those mortals sought to mingle in powers that were not theirs to command. The forest, they thought, was theirs. Sin decided to teach them an unforgettable lesson.

With all the authority of Freya herself, Sin commanded those trees to ACT – and act they did. The sharp, jagged branches turned upon their occupants, grabbing and writhing until each archer was yelping in confusion. Jumping, some escaped to the ground, only to find entangling roots rip up and grab their legs, knotting them inescapably. One persisted in its defiance, compelled by a single man, and Sin raised the nature-infused _Shed'lahk_ against the tree which the ranger stood upon.

The single tree shivered and cried at the opposing forces within it. Sin gave it relief, allowing it to grow new, unbound branches to enforce his will, and from its trunk they snapped like tentacles to ensnare the last of the rangers. Eleven blood elves struggled fitfully and futilely against their confines.

Letting the end of his staff touch the ground, a thrum of power – of life – reverberated through the soil, sprouting saplings and new life in its wake. Sin could feel the approach of a small army, lingering just out of sight, with five bi-pedal figures approaching cautiously. With a command to Lynona and the lurking Narelle, he began marching forward, past the rangers.

Through the shade and motes of light, Sin saw the five. Four carried bows, the last a sword and shield. Standing beside the tree of the last resister – a blond man, whom Sin would not recognize as a blood elf with his beard if not for the green eyes – Sin stationed himself and waited.

The encroaching gang noticed him immediately, turning wary and muttering in quiet tones. The forest betrayed them, whispering their secrets to Sin, and he picked out the one human as a man called both Thomas and Shadow. For he with the blindfold, danger was mentioned in each whisper.

"I have a shot," Narelle whispered.

"Wait," he ordered calmly.

"Don't trust sin'dorei," she hissed, and he replied, "Don't either be guided by hate."

Rather than the blood elves, the threat was realized in the human. The one man, Thomas, vanished as he stepped into the shadow of a wide tree, and Narelle hissed loudly as she spun in place and flickered into visibility with her bow aimed at the man now standing behind Thomas.

"A dark skinned god," the man started, interrupted by the loosing of Narelle's bow. Sin clucked his tongue, but he felt the presence change again, now standing in the shade of a tree over. Thomas added, "But not of kal'dorei shape, like your protector."

"A de'Rath of the desert. Call me Sin."

The human smiled and nodded once. His hand dragged his mask from the top of his head to cover his face, and he vanished into the shadows again, returning to his cohorts. Calling loudly, Thomas said, "Intriguing! A god who reeks with the stench of a demon, whom is from the desert but holds authority within the forest. And Sin is his name!"

A rogue-trick, Sin recalled, labeled "Shadow-Stepping." Shouting back, he asked, "Thomas, also called the Shadow, are you he whom has broken the operations of the cult over yonder?"

"You know me, Lord of the Forest?"

Beside him, Lynon chided, "Master, don't play."

"Thomas, the men you sent against me are captured but unharmed! I seek a word with you, on peaceful terms, though the very forest buzzes with your thrill for a fight! I insist only this once that we meet as friends, but come if you feel you must!"

The elves spoke again, their words carried in the rustle of leaves, but it remained in the Thalassian tongue. Sin's hold on the language was iffy, but he thought it was a question over the capture of one called Jerath. Glancing at the man dangling far above his head, the battle of control to take this one bearded elf, he could understand their shock.

The whispers continued, this one in Common: "Light knows you take pleasure in inciting every supernatural being you come across, Jack, but for once, use your head. Ignore his shape, focus on power."

The blindfolded one, the one whom breathed danger. Sin felt his lips quirk into a smile.

"One of them is using reason," Narelle mentioned dryly, and he realized she was using one of her tricks to carry sound too. He told her, "So I can hear."

"The mix of nature and fel worries me, friend," Thomas returned. "We cannot trust his words of "peace.""

"If you were using your head, you would notice the heavy musk of the loa too," the blind one insisted. "This man is a champion of forces beyond our ability. Do not condemn us."

Touching the wind with his ability, Sin carry a soft phrase back to them, "Have no worries of arousing my fury. The action of one in ignorance will not upturn my hand against all of those who follow you. Let him come, and he will learn."

"Master..." Lynona groaned.

There was an excitement in Thomas' voice: "Good." Sin saw Thomas' shape vanish in the shadows again, and in the same instant, he thrust _Shed'lahk_ into the air, calling upon it all the mana and spells he could muster in a single moment, and he slammed the end into the soil in a burst of bright light.

Around his trio, walls of shadow and flame rose up in a physical shell, protecting them from the sudden appearance of the human – daggers drawn – and then came the torrent of nature mana directly where he appeared. It came like a whirlwind, but mixed with reaching roots and bright motes as hot and intense as the summer sun, carried by a searing wind.

The tidal wave of nature fell upon the human rogue, swallowing him in a single instant. Such an assault would slay any man foolish enough to entangle himself in the forces, but Sin grinned as the one called the Shadow insisted not only despite it but _through_ it. A purple-wrapped shape leapt through his wall of flame and magic without harm, still pinning with his daggers.

The Cloak of Shadows, if Sin recalled rightly. It had been some time since he had worked with a rogue-by-class, and longer since he battled one. But what the human did not realize is that while such a shroud protected him from nearly any mana-centered spell work, it was futile against the works of the physical.

Proportionate to his great strength, Lynona acted and reacted with supernatural reflexes, catching the humanoid purple shape with her whip and yanking back on it. Shadow-wrapped hands grabbed at the barbed whip at its throat, dropping their daggers, yet before its purpose seemed lost, the shadow vanished again into the shadows at its feet, disappearing into air without perceivable trace. It sprang up again from the same place, free of the whip and catching the daggers in seamless motions.

Sin had a wide grin a the approach of the human, seeing the shroud drop finally to reveal the masked man. Leather and leather and leather were his body, without a hint of skin showing and a mask that covered all but the eye holes. Two daggers flickering brightly with their enchantments hungered for Sin's blood, and he braced his feet while commanding forward great webs of shadow.

Narelle flickered into sight, her warden's cloak still whirling in the air, and she caught the man by the throat again, dispassionate. Her crescent moon blade slid against his throat, stilling him but not cutting yet. Still that color-shifting cloak twirled, not yet settling, when the man's legs gave out and he dropped with his momentum, then shifted into a sweep that would take Narelle's legs from her. The move also removed the blade from his neck, the momentum just right – clearly a practiced trick – but the night elf was hardly phased, stepping over the sweep and insisting with her blade, now plunging towards his gut.

Thomas' form blurred, distorting strangely with the shadows, and the blade missed his side by inches. Soft-soled leather boots snapped up and kicked Narelle back, and he flipped to his feet, determination singular as the shadow walls around them fell, revealing the forest again. The normal response would be to shadowburn the fight out of his opponent, but watching the physical show at such breakneck speeds had excited the loa song within Sin.

Guided by old training, Sin snapped _Shed'lahk_ like a staff and caught the unprepared human in the head. No one, oddly, ever expected a warlock to master physical combat too. Their mistake. Excited, hunger matched only by the human before him, Sin twirled the Bane-Heart and struck end after end, leading the rogue to deflect the strikes with easy slights of hand as he reassessed his foe.

"Tick," Sin said in their fight.

"Tick." Thomas Shadow-Stepped behind Sin, only to find the staff jabbed into his protected chest again, sending him stumbling.

Sin turned, still smiling, and he finished, "Boom." A renewed tidal wave of shadow mixed with chaotic fel flames erupted from _Shed'lahk_, consuming all before it in its path for the unbalanced rogue. Hardly waiting for the resulting destruction, Sin yanked aside _Shed'lahk_ aside in his left hand, opening his cloak for his right to dip inside and pry free his father's revolver.

Click.

Thomas stopped in place, frozen abruptly, from where he emerged in a returned Cloak of Shadows as he found the gun trained precisely upon his face, too close to dodge. Sin winked at him. "You have your tricks, friend, but not nearly as many as myself." He kicked the deactivated trap from his feet towards the rogue. In the midst of their fight, Thomas had been laying them upon the area, hoping to take Sin by surprise.

The flames and roiling shadow still evident behind Thomas as the Cloak flickered and fell, revealing a battered and seared, yet mostly unharmed, rogue once again. Though them two had frozen, Lynona and Narelle quickly ganged on either side of the rogue – away from the demonic blight behind him and boxing Thomas in.

He did not remain trapped for long, as he slid back through the shadows and rejoined his cohorts. There was silence in the forest, apart from the still struggling Jerath above them. Sin lowered his hood and quelled the blight he had made from his last attack, then smirked at the fivesome.

"He's good," the whispered words of Thomas carried to Sin.

"Idiot," the short blond woman replied, her words sweet in sound but disapproving in tone.

"Kindred spirits," the blindfolded one mentioned absently, staring without open eyes back at Sin. "That one wanted the duel as much as Jack."

"He held back," Thomas put in, now walking forward. He removed his mask and tied it to his waist, revealing a bedraggled head with messed brown hair and a swelling cheek from the clean strike Sin had scored.

"So did you!" Sin returned, laughing. With a gesture, Sin commanded the trees to release their prisoners, and quickly the Blades retreated at full sprint to Thomas. Sin noticed the way they would not meet the eyes of their leader, though Thomas nodded to each of them. A woman with silver hair, one of the five before the Blades' return, spoke to them softly, detailing what had happened.

"We will have words later, Sin de Rath," Narelle intoned, and she was supported by a fiercely nodding Lynona.

"Yes, darling," Sin replied off-hand. He could not shake the excitement of the fight, and he wanted to comment on how exhilarating it had been, but between both women, he knew he would be in a world of scorn for it – and from the sharp look from Lynona, he realize she had picked up the thought anyways.

"We will have many words, Master," was the cool comment.

Sin laughed and shook his head. Whistling, he called the bandits out of hiding, then said, "Let us meet with friend Thomas. Don't forget to express your thanks for his work in destroying the cult for us."

"Madman," Narelle grumbled, just as the scores of qiraji began to fly overhead, consuming all sound in the thunder of their wings.

* * *

AN: Well, I'm finally at Sin's part in Stage Three, and I realized I can't progress there until I finish everything in this and next chapter. This one was quicker to fix, so y'all get to have it quickly. Next chapter's whole second half gets a reworking – or perhaps an extending. Either way, it's going to be the insertion of whole scenes that haven't otherwise happened yet, which is infinitely better than simple rewriting. If next chapter breeches the upper limit of "5k to 15k words," I apologize ahead of time – but hey, it's the final chapter of Stage Two, so it's allowed special treatment.

Also, I would like to hear feedback on the reader's take of Sin and Lynona's interactions. Her return is the one thing I'm hesitant on if I put in proper prospective.


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